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Portraits of the Day 


By 


THEOPHILE GAUTIER 


Translated and Edited by 


PROFESSOR F, C. DESUMICHRAST 
DEPARTMENT OF FRENCH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY 


Vouvume III, 


The €C. T. Brainard 
Publishing Co. 
Boston Rew Pork 


EDITION DE LOXE 


THIS EDITION OF THE WORKS OF 
‘THEOPHILE GAUTIER, PRINTED FOR 
SUBSCRIBERS ONLY, IS LIMITED TO 
ONE THOUSAND NUMBERED SETS, OF 


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By Gerorcre D. Sprout: 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


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The Romance of a Mummy 


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THE ROMANCE 


HE subject of “ The Romance of a 
Mummy” was possibly suggested to 

Théophile Gautier by Ernest Feydeau, 

the author of “ Fanny” and other works 

of purely light literature, who published in 1858 a 
““General History of Funeral Customs and Burials 
among the Ancients.” . This book was reviewed by 
Gautier when it appeared, and it is most likely that he 
had been previously made acquainted with its contents 
and had discussed Egyptian funeral rites and modes of 
sepulture with the author, for it was to Feydeau that he 
dedicated his novel when it was published in book form 
by Hachette in 1858. An omnivorous reader, Gautier 
had no doubt also perused the far more important works 
of Champollion, the decipherer of the inscriptions on 
the Rosetta stone, who first gave the learned world the 


key to the mysterious Egyptian hieroglyphic alphabet. 
3 


dete cbe eos os ech chee tactcdecte ch obec cbecbe cd oe doo 


ve ate 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Champollion’s “ Monuments of Egypt and Nubia” 
had appeared in four volumes from 1835 to 1845, and 
a continuation by himself and the Vicomte Emmanuel 
de Rougé was completed in 1872. Champollion- 
Figeac’s ‘Ancient Egypt” had been published in 
1840, having been preceded by Lenormant’s ‘The 
Museum of Egyptian Antiquities in the Louvre,” in 
1830, and followed by Prisse d’Avennes’ “ Monuments 
of Egypt”? in 1847. ‘The explorations and discoveries 
of Mariette, summed up in that writer’s ‘ Selected 
Monuments and Drawings,’ issued in 1856, and 
the steady growth of the Egyptian Museum in the 
Louvre, to which was added in 1852 the magnificent 
Clot-Bev collection, must have attracted the attention 
of Gautier, always keenly interested in art, literature, 
and erudition. 

The account he gives, in his novel, of the ancient 
city of Thebes, of the great necropolis in the valley of 
Biban el Molfik, of the subterranean tombs, of the pre- 
cautions taken by the designers to bafHle curiosity, of 
the form and ornamentation of the sarcophagi, of the 
mummy-cases, of the mummy itself, of the manners, 
customs, dress, and beliefs of the ancient Egyptians, 


are marvellously accurate. Nothing is easier than to 


4 


ch he oh obs he he che he che abe eect cba cba cle hed hecho ce he abet 
INTRODUCTION 


verify his descriptions by reference to the works of 
Champollion, Mariette, Wilkinson, Rawlinson, Er- 
man, Edwards, and Maspero. Scarcely here and there 
will the reader find a possible error in his statements. 
It is evident that he has not trusted alone to what 
Feydeau told him, or to what he read in his book or in 
the works of Egyptologists; he examined the antiqui- 
ties in the Louvre for himself; he noted carefully the 
scenes depicted on monuments and sarcophagi; he 
traced the ornamentation in all its details; he studied 
the poses, the attitudes, the expressions; he marked 
the costumes, the accessories; in a word, he mastered 
his subject, and then only did he, with that facility and 
certainty that amazed Balzac, write in swift succession 
the chapters of the novel which appeared in the num- 
bers of the “ Moniteur Universel”’ from March 11 to 
May 6, 1857. 

His remark on Feydeau’s book, ‘ Picturesqueness 
in no wise detracts from accuracy,” might well be 
applied to his own “ Romance,” which fascinates the 
reader with its evocation of a long vanished past and its 
representation of a civilisation buried for centuries in 
mystery. The weaving in of the wonders wrought by 


Moses and Aaron, of the overwhelming of the Pharaoh, 


5 


bbbbk bk ttbbbbbbbbh bbb 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


whether Thotmes or Rameses, is skilfully managed, 
and imparts to the portions of the Biblical narrative 
used by him a verisimilitude and a sensation of actuality 
highly artistic. “The purely erudite part of the work 
would probably not have interested the general public, 
indifferent to the discoveries of archeology, but the 
introduction of the human element of love at once cap- 
tivated it; the erudite appreciated the accuracy of the 
restoration of ancient times and manners; the merely 
curious were pleased with a well told story, cleverly set 
in a framework whose strangeness appealed to their love 
of exoticism and novelty. 

There have been added by the editor, as bearing 
upon the subject of the “Romance of a Mummy,” 
two or three chapters from the volume entitled ‘“ The 
Orient,” which is made up of a collection of sketches 
and letters of travel written at different times, and of 
reviews of books upon Eastern subjects, whether 
modern or ancient. The chapter describing a trip to 
Egypt was the result of a flying visit paid to that coun- 
try on the occasion of the official opening of the Suez 
Canal in November, 1869. Gautier embarked on 
board the steamship “ Moeris,” of the Messageries 
Impériales, at Marseilles. The very first night out he 


6 


deech skh hbk bh baba ecech cheb cb check ob deck 
INTRODUCTION 


slipped and fell down the companion steps, and broke 
his left arm above the elbow. This painful accident 
did not prevent his fulfilling his promise to keep the 
“¢ Journal Officiel,” with which he was then connected, 
fully supplied with accounts of the land and the inau- 


guration ceremonies. 


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HAVE a presentiment that we shall find in the 
valley of Biban el Molik a tomb intact,” 
said to a high-bred-looking young Englishman 
a much more humble personage who was wip- 

ing, with a big, blue-checked handkerchief, his bald 
head, on which stood drops of perspiration, just as if 
it had been made of porous clay and filled with water 
like a Theban water-yjar. 

“© May Osiris hear you!” replied the English noble- 
man to the German scholar. ‘One may be allowed 
such an invocation in the presence of the ancient 
Diospolis Magna. But we have been so often deceived 
hitherto; treasure-seekers have always forestalled us.” 

“©A tomb which neither the Shepherd Kings nor 
the Medes of Cambyses nor the Greeks nor the 
Romans nor the Arabs have explored, and which 
will give up to us its riches intact,” continued the 


perspiring scholar, with an enthusiasm which made 


his eyes gleam behind the lenses of his blue glasses. 


BLELAKALLALAELLEALALAL EAL ELL 
THE ROMANCE OF A MU Niki 


“And on which you will print a most learned 
dissertation which will give you a place by the side 
of Champollion, Rosellini, Wilkinson, Lepsius, and 


> 


Belzoni,” said the young nobleman. 

“¢T shall dedicate it to you, my lord, for had you 
not treated me with regal munificence, I could 
not have backed up my system by an examination 
of the monuments, and I should have died in my 
little town in Germany without having beheld the 
marvels of this ancient land,’ replied the scholar, 
with emotion. 

This conversation took place not far from the Nile, 
at the entrance to the valley of Biban el Molik, 
between Lord Evandale, who rode an Arab _ horse, 
and Dr. Rumphius, more modestly perched upon an 
ass, the lean hind-quarters of which a fellah was bela- 
bouring. The boat which had brought the two travel- 
lers, and which was to be their dwelling during their 
stay, was moored on the other side of the Nile in front 
of the village of Luxor. Its sweeps were shipped, its 
great lateen sails furled on the yards. After having 
devoted a few days to visiting and studying the amaz- 
ing ruins of Thebes, gigantic remains of a mighty 


world, they had crossed the river on a sandal, a light 


10 


$LECE¢ ee eee etettteseetes 
PROLOGUE 


native boat, and were proceeding towards the barren 
region which contains within its depths, far down 
mysterious hypogea, the former inhabitants of the 
palaces on the other bank. A few men of the crew 
accompanied Lord Evandale and Dr. Rumphius at 
a distance, while the others, stretched out on the 
deck in the shadow of the cabin, were peacefully 
smoking their pipes and watching the craft. 

Lord Evandale was one of those thoroughly irre- 
proachable young noblemen whom the upper classes 
of Britain give to civilisation. He bore everywhere 
with him the disdainful sense of security which comes 
from great hereditary wealth, a historic name _in- 
scribed in the ‘ Peerage and Baronetage’ — a book 
second only to the Bible in England —and a beauty 
against which nothing could be urged, save that it 
was too great for a man. His clear-cut and cold 
features seemed to be a wax copy of the head of 
Meleager or Antinous; his brilliant complexion seemed 
to be the result of rouge and powder, and his some- 
what reddish hair curled naturally as accurately as an 
expert hairdresser or clever valet could have made 
it curl. On the other hand, the firm glance of his 


steel-blue eyes and the slightly sneering expression 


Il 


dhe ob ol ob hh dee ch cb bh cbbch bb bob bobh 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


of his lower lip corrected whatever there might be 
of effeminate in his general appearance. 

As a member of the Royal Yacht Squadron, the 
young nobleman indulged occasionally in a cruise 
on his swift yacht Puck, built of teak, fitted like 
a boudoir, and manned by a small crew of picked sea- 
men. In the course of the preceding year he had 
visited Iceland; in the present year he was visiting 
Egypt, and his yacht awaited him in the roads of 
Alexandria. He had with him a scholar, a physician, 
a naturalist, an artist, and a photographer, in order 
that his trip might not be unfruitful. He was himself 
highly educated, and his society successes had not 
made him forget his triumphs at Cambridge Uni- 
versity. He was dressed with that accuracy and care- 
ful neatness characteristic of the English, who trav- 
erse the desert sands in the same costume which 
they would wear when walking on the pier at Rams- 
gate or on the pavements of the West End. A coat, 
vest, and trousers of white duck, intended to repel the 
sun’s rays, composed his costume, which was com- 
pleted by a narrow blue necktie with white spots, and 
an extremely fine Panama hat with a veil. 


Rumphius, the Egyptologist, preserved even in this 


12 


ebook cde che deh hb bebe ecb cb cb cbc bab 
PROLOGUE 


hot climate the traditional black coat of the scholar 
with its loose skirts, its curled up collar, its worn 
buttons, some of which had freed themselves of their 
silk covering. His black trousers shone in places and 
showed the warp. Near the right knee an attentive 
observer might have remarked upon the greyish ground 
of the stuff a systematic series of lines of richer tone 
which proved that he was in the habit of wiping his 
pen upon this portion of his clothes. His muslin 
cravat, rolled in the shape of a cord, hung loosely 
around his neck, on which stood out strongly the 
Adam’s apple. ‘Though he was dressed with scien- 
tific carelessness, Rumphius was not any the hand- 
somer on that account. A few reddish hairs, streaked 
with gray, were brushed back behind his protruding 
ears, and were puffed up by the high collar of his 
coat. His perfectly bald skull, shining like a bone, 
overhung a prodigiously long nose, spongy and _ bul- 
bous at the end, so that with the blue discs of his 
glasses he looked somewhat like an ibis, —a resem- 
blance increased by his head sunk between his shoul- 
ders. [his appearance was of course entirely suitable 
and most providential for one engaged in deciphering 


hieroglyphic inscriptions and scrolls. He looked like 


te 


ttteeetbttetetttettttttes 


Ay 
eo we Fes ee We VS 


THE ROMANCE OF (A MURERI 


a bird-headed god, such as are seen on funeral frescoes, 
who had transmigrated into the body of a scholar. 

The lord and the doctor were travelling towards 
the cliffs which encircle the sombre valley of Biban 
el Moltik, the royal necropolis of ancient Thebes, 
indulging in the conversation of which we have re- 
lated a part, when, rising like a Troglodyte from 
the black mouth of an empty sepulchre —the ordi- 
nary habitation of the fellahs — another person, dressed 
in somewhat theatrical fashion, abruptly entered 
on the scene, stood before the travellers, and saluted 
them with the graceful salute of the Orientals, which 
is at once humble, caressing, and noble. 

This man was a Greek who undertook to direct 
excavations, who manufactured and sold antiquities, 
selling new ones when the supply of the old happened 
to fail. Nothing about him, however, smacked of the 
vulgar exploiter of strangers. He wore a red felt fez 
from which hung a long blue silk tassel; under the 
narrow edge of an inner linen cap showed his temples, 
evidently recently shaved. His olive complexion, his 
black eyebrows, his hooked nose, his eyes like those 
of a bird of prey, his big moustaches, his chin almost 


divided into two parts by a mark which looked very 


14 


—— 


che che che oe abe abe he ake che che check bebe oh bach che abe be ob 
PROLOGUE 


iz 


much like a sabre-cut, would have made his face that 
of a brigand, had not the harshness of his features been 
tempered by the assumed amenity and the servile smile 
of a speculator who has many dealings with the public. 
He was dressed in very cleanly fashion in a cinnamon- 
coloured jacket embroidered with silk of the same 
colour, gaiters of the same stuff, a white vest adorned 
with buttons like chamomile flowers, a broad red belt, 
and vast bulging trousers with innumerable folds. 

He had long since noted.the boat at anchor before 
Luxor. Its size, the number of the oarsmen, the 
luxury of the fittings, and especially the English flag 
which floated from the stern, had led his mercantile 
instinct to expect a rich traveller whose scientific 
curiosity might be exploited, and who would not be 
satisfied with statuettes of blue or green enamelled 
ware, engraved scarabei, paper rubbings of hieroglyphic 
panels, and other such trifles of Egyptian art. 

He had followed the coming and going of the travel- 
lers among the ruins, and knowing that they would not 
fail, after having sated their curiosity, to cross the 
stream in order to visit the royal tombs, he awaited 
them on his own ground, certain of fleecing them to 


some extent. He looked upon the whole of this 


15 


bebbbhbbbeeteteebh dtd dee eds 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


funereal realm as his own property, and treated with 
“scant courtesy the little subaltern jackals who ventured 
to scratch in the tombs. 

With the swift perception characteristic of the Greeks, 
no sooner had he cast his eyes upon Lord Evandale 
than he quickly estimated the probable income of his 
lordship and resolved not to deceive him, reasoning 
that he would profit more by telling the truth than by 
lying. So he gave up his intention of leading the 
noble Englishman through hypogea traversed hundreds 
of times already, and disdained to allow him to begin 
excavations in places where he knew nothing would be 
found; for he himself had long since taken out and 
sold very dear the curiosities they had contained. 

Argyropoulos (such was the Greek’s name), while 
exploring the portion of the valley which had been less 
frequently sounded than others because hitherto the 
search had never been rewarded by any find, had come 
to the conclusion that in a certain spot, behind some 
rocks whose position seemed to be due to chance, 
there certainly existed the entrance to a passageway 
masked with peculiar care, which his great experience 
in this kind of search had enabled him to recognise by 


a thousand signs imperceptible to less clear-sighted 


160 


= = = = = 
ore 


PROLOGUE 


eyes than his own, which were as sharp and piercing 
as those of the vultures perched upon the entablature 
of the temples. Since he had made that discovery, two 
years before, he had bound himself never to walk or 
look in that direction lest he might give a hint to the 
violators of tombs. 

“Does your lordship intend to attempt excava- 
tions?’ said he in a sort of cosmopolitan dialect which 
those who have been in the ports of the Levant and 
have had recourse to the services of the polyglot drago- 
mans — who end by not knowing any language -— are 
well acquainted with. Fortunately, both Lord Evan- 
dale and his learned companion knew the various 
tongues from which Argyropoulos borrowed. ‘I can 
place at your disposal,” he went on, ‘some hundred 
energetic fellahs who, under the spur of whip and 
bakshish, would dig with their finger-nails to the 
very centre of the earth, We may try, if it pleases 
your lordship, to clear away a buried sphinx or a shrine, 
or to open up a hypogeum.” 

On seeing that his lordship remained unmoved by 
this tempting enumeration, and that a sceptical smile 
flitted across the doctor’s face, Argyropoulos understood 


that he had not to deal with easy dupes, and he was 


2 17 


eho hb ecb bee decheb ech bah boot 
dBW ia Wi oh ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


confirmed in his intention to’sell to the Englishman the 


discovery on which he reckoned to complete his fortune 
and to give a dowry to his daughter. 

“TI can see that you are scholars, not ordinary 
tourists, and that vulgar curiosity does not bring you 
here,” he went on, speaking in English less mixed with 
Greek, Arabic, and Italian. ‘I will show you a tomb 
which has hitherto escaped all searchers, which no one 
knows of but myself. It is a treasure which I have 
carefully preserved for a person worthy of it.” 

“And for which you will have to be paid a high 
price,” said his lordship, smiling. 

‘¢T am too honest to contradict your lordship; I do 
hope to get a good price for my discovery. Every one 
in this world lives by his trade. Mine is to exhume 
Pharaohs and sell them to strangers. Pharaohs are 
becoming scarce at the rate at which they are being 
dug up; there are not enough left for everybody. 
‘They are very much in demand, and it is long since 
any have been manufactured.” 

‘Quite right,” said the scholar; “it is some cen- 
turies since the undertakers, dissectors, and embalmers 
have shut up shop, and the Memnonia, peaceful dwell- 


ings of the dead, have been deserted by the living.” 
18 


ooh cbse che che chs ahs che hecho cbecbecdecbecbecbecdec eek 


eFe oo OF2 fe WO 1S VTE CIO Wie wie Vie 


PROLOGUE 


The Greek, as he heard these words, cast a side- 
long glance at the German, but fancying from his 
wretched dress that he had no voice in the matter, 
he continued to address himself exclusively to the 
young nobleman. 

“ Are a thousand guineas too much, my lord, for a 
tomb of the greatest antiquity, which no human hand 
has opened for more than three thousand years, since 
the priests rolled rocks before its mouth? Indeed, it 
is giving it away; for perhaps it contains quantities of 
gold, diamond, and pearl necklaces, carbuncle earrings, 
sapphire seals, ancient idols in precious metals, and coins 
which could be turned to account.” 


hey 


“You sly rascal!” said Rumphius, “ you are prais- 
ing up your wares, but you know better than any one 
that nothing of the sort is found in Egyptian tombs.” 

Argyropoulos, understanding that he had to do with 
clever men, ceased to boast, and turning to Lord Evan- 
dale, he said to him, ‘“‘ Well, my lord, does the price 
suit you?” 


93 


“<T will give a thousand guineas,” replied the young 
nobleman, “if the tomb has not been opened; but I 
shall give nothing if a single stone has been touched by 


the crow-bar of the diggers.” 


ig 


oh cob oe oe oe oe oe oe abe arabe ooo oe bao oe obo abe obec 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘© With the additional proviso,’ added Rumphius the 
prudent, ‘‘that we carry off everything we shall find in 
the tomb.” 

“¢ Agreed!” said Argyropoulos, with a look of com- 
plete confidence. ‘¢ Your lordship may get ready your 
bank-notes and gold beforehand.” 

‘Dr. Rumphius,” said Lord Evandale to his acolyte, 
“it strikes me that the wish you uttered just now is 
about to be realised. This man seems sure of what 
he says.” 

“Heaven will it may be so!” replied the scholar, 
shaking his head somewhat doubtfully; ‘but the 
Greeks are most barefaced liars. Crete mendaces, says 
the proverb.” 

“No doubt this one comes from the mainland,” 
answered Lord Evandale, ‘“¢and I think that for once 
he has told the truth.” 

The Greek walked a few steps ahead of the noble- 
man and the scholar like a well-bred man who knows 
what is proper. He walked lightly and firmly, like a 
man who feels that he is on his own ground. 

The narrow defile which forms the entrance to 
the valley of Biban el Molik was soon reached. It 


had more the appearance of the work of man than 


20 


debe chock debra choad babe 


CRO GTS OFS OTS CHO CFO BO UTS CFS WTO OFO 


PROLOGUE 


of a natural opening in the mighty wall of the moun- 
tain, as if the Genius of Solitude had desired to make 
this realm of death inaccessible. On the perpen- 
dicular rocky walls were faintly discernible shapeless 
vestiges of weather-worn sculptures which might 
have been mistaken for the asperities of the stone 
imitating the worn figures of a_half-effaced basso- 
relievo. Beyond the opening, the valley, which here 
widened somewhat, presented the most desolate sight, 
On either side rose steep slopes formed of huge masses 
of calcareous rock, rough, leprous-looking, worn, 
cracked, ground to sand, in a complete state of 
decomposition under the pitiless sun. They resem- 
bled bones calcined in the fire, and yawned with 
the weariness of eternity out of their deep crevices, 
imploring by their thousand cracks the drop of water 
which never fell. “The walls rose almost vertically 
to a great height, and their dentelated crests stood 
out grayish-white against the almost black indigo 
of the sky, like the broken battlements of a giant 
ruined fortress. “he rays of the sun heated to white 
heat one of the sides of the funeral valley, the other 
being bathed in that crude blue tint of torrid lands. 
which strikes the people of the North as untruthful 


20. 


check cbe lech ch beh ch obec cheche coh beech ah chee 


HO CHO CYS CFO OTS OFS 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


when it is reproduced by painters, and which stands out 
as sharply as the shadows on an architectural drawing. 

The valley sometimes made sudden turns, some- 
times narrowed into defiles as the boulders and cliffs 
drew closer or apart. The thoroughly dry atmos- 
phere in these climates being perfectly transparent, 
there was no aerial perspective in this place of deso- 
lation. Every detail, sharp, accurate, bare, stood out, 
even in the background, with pitiless dryness, and 
the distance could only be guessed at by the smaller 
dimensions of objects. It seemed as though cruel 
nature had resolved not to conceal any wretchedness, 
any sadness of this bare land, deader even than the 
dead it contained. Upon the sun-lighted cliff streamed 
like a cascade of fire a blinding glare like that which 
is given out by molten metal; every rock face, trans- 
formed into a burning-glass, returned it more ardent 
still. These reflections, crossing and recrossing each 
other, joined to the flaming rays which fell from 
heaven and which were reflected by the ground, pro- 
duced a heat equal to that of an oven, and the poor 
German doctor had hard work to wipe his face with 
his blue-checked handkerchief, which was as wet as 


if it had been dipped in water. 


plo. 


LEALLALLLL EAL L aA EEL ES 
PROLOGUE 


There was not a particle of loam to be found in 
the whole valley, consequently not a blade of grass, 
not a bramble, not a creeper, not even a patch of 
moss to break the uniformly whitish tone of the 
torrified landscape. The cracks and recesses of the 
rocks did not hold coolness enough for the thin, 
hairy roots of the smallest rock plant. The place 
looked as if it held the ashes of a chain of mountains, 
consumed in some great planetary conflagration, and 
the accuracy of the parallel was completed by great 
black strips looking like cauterised cicatrices which 
rayed the chalky slopes. 

Deep silence reigned over this waste ; no sign of 
life was visible; no flutter of wing, no hum of insect, 
no flash of lizard or reptile; even the shrill song 
of the cricket, that lover of burning solitudes, was 
unheard. The soil was formed of a micaceous, bril- 
liant dust like ground sandstone, and here and there 
rose hummocks formed of the fragments of stone 
torn from the depths of the chain, which had been 
excavated by the persevering workmen of vanished 
generations, and the chisel of the Troglodyte labourers 
who had prepared in the shadow the eternal dwelling- 


places of the dead. The broken entrails of the moun- 


“3 


LLELAKALAALLALLLALALLALAAL ALLA 
THE ROMANCE OFA MURR 


tain had produced other mountains, friable heaps of 
small rocks which might have been mistaken for the 
natural range. 

On the sides of the cliffs showed here and there 
small openings surrounded with blocks of stone thrown 
in disorder: square holes flanked by pillars covered 
with hieroglyphs, the lintels of which bore mysteri- 
ous cartouches on which could yet be made out in 
a great yellow disc the sacred scarabaus, the ram- 
headed sun, and the goddesses Isis and Nephthys 
standing or kneeling. 

These were the tombs of the ancient kings of 
Thebes. Argyropoulos did not stop there, but led 
the travellers up a sort of steep slope, which at first 
glance seemed nothing but a break on the side of 
the mountain, choked in many places by fallen masses 
of rock, until they reached a narrow platform, a sort 
of cornice projecting over the vertical cliff on which 
the rocks, apparently thrown together by chance, 
nevertheless exhibited on close examination some 
symmetrical arrangement. 

When the nobleman, who was a practised athlete, 
and the doctor, who was much less agile, had suc- 


ceeded in climbing up to him, Argyropoulos pointed 


24 


che robe oho che abe abe hr fe cere chee oe che ee che coe ole 


we ee 


PROLOGUE 


with his stick to a huge stone and said with triumphant 
satisfaction, ‘‘’ There is the spot!” 

He clapped his hands in Oriental fashion, and 
straightway from the fissures of the rocks, from the 
folds of the valley, hastened up pale, ragged fellahs, 
who bore in their bronze-coloured arms crow-bars, 
pick-axes, hammers, ladders, and all necessary tools. 
They escaladed the steep slope like a legion of black 
ants; those who could not find room on the narrow 
ledge on which already stood the Greek, Lord Evan- 
dale, and Dr. Rumphius, hung by their hands and 
steadied themselves with their feet against the pro- 
jections in the rock. “The Greek signed to three of 
the most robust, who placed their crow-bars under 
the edges of the boulder. ‘Their muscles stood out 
upon their thin arms, and they pressed with their 
whole weight on the end of the levers. At last the 
boulder moved, tottered for a moment like a drunken 
man, and, urged by the united efforts of Argyropoulos, 
Lord Evandale, Rumphius, and a few Arabs who had 
succeeded in climbing the ledge, bounded down the 
slope. “Iwo other boulders of less size went the 
same way, one after another, and then it was plaii 
that the belief of the Greek was justified. The 


25 


ttbetbtbbtvretceeettddbbidd 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


entrance to a tomb, which had evidently escaped 
the investigations of the treasure-seekers, appeared in 
all its integrity. 

It was a sort of portico squarely cut in the living 
rock. On the two side-walls a couple of pairs of pil- 
lars exhibited capitals formed of bulls’ heads, the horns 
of which were twisted like the crescent of Isis. 
Below the low door, with its jambs flanked by long 
panels covered with hieroglyphs, there was a broad, 
emblematic square. In the centre of a yellow disc 
showed by the side of the scarabzus, symbol of suc- 
cessive new births, the ram-headed god, the symbol of 
the setting sun. Outside the disc, Isis and Nephthys, 
incarnations of the Beginning and the End, were kneel- 
ing, one leg bent under the thigh, the other raised 
to the height of the elbow, in the Egyptian attitude, 
the arms stretched forward with an air of mysterious 
amazement, and the body clothed in a close fitting 
gown girdled by a belt with falling ends. Behind a 
wall of stone and unbaked brick, that readily yielded 
to the pickaxes of the workmen, was discovered the 
stone slab which formed the doorway of the subter- 
ranean monument. On the clay seal which closed it, 


the German doctor, thoroughly familiar with hiero- 


26 


BEALL AEA AHSSAAA SSA ttsetet 
P R OLOGUE 


glyphs, had no difficulty in reading the motto of the 
guardian of the funeral dwellings, who had closed for- 
ever this tomb, the situation of which he alone could 
have found upon the map of burial-places preserved in 
the priests’ college. 


4 


“<T begin to believe,” said the delighted scholar to 
the young nobleman, “ that we have actually found a 
prize, and I withdraw the unfavourable opinion which 
I expressed about this worthy Greek.” 

‘©Perhaps we are rejoicing too soon,’ answered 
Lord Evandale, “and we may experience the same 
disappointment as Belzoni, when he believed himself 
to be the first to enter the tomb of Menephtha Seti, 
and found, after he had traversed a labyrinth of pas- 
sages, walls, and chambers, an empty sarcophagus with 
a broken cover; for the treasure-seekers had reached 
the royal tomb through one of their soundings driven 
in at another point in the mountain.” 

“©Oh, no,” answered the doctor; “the range is 
too broad here and the hypogeum too distant from 
the others for these wretched people to have carried 
their mines as far as this, even if they scraped away 
the rock.” 


While this conversation was going on, the workmen, 


2] 


che che abe oho oe ce ae be ae che che Arche fe rch oho he che che ce he beads 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


urged by Argyropoulos, proceeded to lift the great 
stone slab which filled up the orifice of the passage. 
As they cleared away the slab in order to pass their 
crow-bars under it, for Lord Evandale had ordered 
that nothing should be broken, they turned up in the 
sand innumerable small statuettes a few inches in height, 
of blue and green enamelled ware, of admirable work- 
manship, —tiny funeral statuettes deposited there as 
offerings by parents and friends, just as we place 
flowers on the thresholds of our funeral chapels ; only, 
our flowers wither, while after more than three thou- 
sand years these witnesses of long bygone griefs are 
found intact, for Egypt worked for eternity only. 
When the door was lifted away, giving for the first 
time in thirty-five centuries entrance to the light of 
day, a puff of hot air escaped from the sombre opening 
as from the mouth of a furnace. ‘The light, striking 
the entrance of the funeral passage, brought out bril- 
liantly the colouring of the hieroglyphs engraved upon 
the walls in perpendicular lines upon a blue plinth. A 
reddish figure with a hawk’s-head crowned with the 
pschent, the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt, 


bore a disc containing a winged globe, and seemed to 


watch on the threshold of the tomb. Some fellahs 


ALBLDA ALE PEL AHEAAALALALSAL Ls 
PROLOGUE 


lighted torches and preceded the two travellers, who 
were accompanied by Argyropoulos. The resinous 
flame burned with difficulty in the dense, stifling air 
which had been concentrated for so many thousands 
of years under the heated limestone of the mountain, 
in the: labyrinths, passages, and blind ways of the 
hypogeum. Rumphius breathed hard and perspired in 
streams; the impassible Evandale turned hot and felt 
a moisture on his temples. As for the Greek, the 
fiery wind of the desert had long since dried him up, 
and he perspired no more than would a mummy. 

The passage led directly to the centre of the chain, 
following a vein of limestone of remarkable fineness 
and purity. At the end of the passageway a stone 
door, sealed as the other had been with a clay seal and 
surmounted by a winged globe, proved that the tomb 
had not been violated and pointed to the existence of 
another passageway sunk deeper still into the mountain. 

The heat was now so intense that the young noble- 
man threw off his white coat, and the doctor his black 
one. ‘These were soon followed by their vests and 
shirts. Argyropoulos, seeing that they were breathing 
with difficulty, whispered a few words to a fellah, who 


ran back to the entrance and brought two large sponges 


29 


tebbbeetbeetbttttettttetttest 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


filled with fresh water, which the Greek advised the 
two travellers to place on their mouths so that they 
might breathe a fresher air through the humid pores, 
as is done in Russian baths when the steam heat is 
raised to excess. 

The door was attacked and soon gave way. A 
steep staircase cut in the living rock was then seen 
descending. Against a green background edged with . 
a blue line were ranged on either side of the passage- 
way processions of symbolical statues, the colours of 
which were as bright and fresh as if the artist’s brush 
had laid them on the day before. They would show 
for a second in the light of the torches, then vanish in 
the shadow like the phantoms of a dream. Below 
these narrow frescoes, lines of hieroglyphs, written per- 
pendicularly like Chinese writing and separated by 
hollow lines, excited the erudite by the sacred mystery 
of their outlines. Along that portion of the walls 
which was not covered with hieratic signs, a jackal 
lying on its belly, with outstretched paws and pointed 
ears, and a kneeling figure wearing a mitre, its hand 
stretched upon a circle, seemed to stand as sentries on 
either side of the door, the lintel of which was orna- 


mented with two panels placed side by side, in which 


30 


dooce cde deb cb bedetecbe obec he cbecbeak oh obeck 
PROLOGUE 


were figured two women wearing close-fitting gowns 
and extending their feathered arms like wings. 

“¢ Look here!” said the doctor, taking breath when 
he reached the foot of the staircase, and when he saw 
that the excavation sank deeper and deeper still. 
“Are we going down to the centre of the earth? 
‘The heat is increasing to such a degree that we cannot 
be far from the sojourn of the damned.” 

“No doubt,” answered Lord Evandale, “they fol- 
lowed the vein of limestone, which sinks in accordance 
with the law of geological undulations.” 

Another very steep passage came after the steps. 
The walls were lower, covered with paintings, in 
which could be made out a series of allegorical scenes, 
explained, no doubt, by the hieroglyphs inscribed 
below. This frieze ran all along the passage, and 
below it were small figures worshipping sacred scar- 
abzi and the azure-coloured symbolical serpent. 

As he reached the end of the passage, the fellah who 
carried the torch threw himself back abruptly, for the 
path was suddenly interrupted by the mouth of a 
square well yawning black at the surface of the ground. 

‘© There is a well, master,” said the fellah, addressing 


himself to Argyropoulos ; ‘what am I to do?” 


31 


dee chee oe oh oe ce ah ae tected cbecbe cde cde cde cece ce be ooab 


GO CYS CTS CYS OTE ee UTS OTS 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


The Greek took the torch, shook it to make it blaze 
up, and threw it into the small mouth of the well, 
bending cautiously over the opening. The torch fell, 
twisting and hissing. Soon a dull sound was heard, 
followed by a burst of sparks and a cloud of smoke, 
then the flame burned up bright and clear, and the 
opening of the well shone in the shadow like the 
bloodshot eye of a Cyclops. 


be] 


“Most ingenious!” said the young nobleman. 
“This labyrinth, interrupted by oubliettes, must have 
cooled the zeal of robbers and scholars.” 

“Not at all,’ replied the doctor. ‘* Those seek 
gold, these truth, which are the two most precious 
things in the world.” 

“‘ Bring the knotted rope!” cried Argyropoulos to 
his Arabs. ‘ We shall explore and sound the walls of 
the well, for the passage no doubt runs far beyond it.” 

Eight or ten men hung on to the rope, the end of 
which was let fall into the well. With the agility of 
a monkey or of an athlete, Argyropoulos caught hold 
of the swinging rope and let himself down some fifteen 
feet, holding on with his hands and striking with his ° 
heels the walls of the well. Wherever he struck the 
rock it gave out a dead, dull sound. Then Argyro- 


32 


LEEALEALE PALES eeetetttee 
PROLOGUE | 


poulos let himself fall to the bottom of the well and 
struck the ground with the hilt of his kandjar, but the 
compact rock did not resound. Lord Evandale and 
the doctor, burning with eager curiosity, bent over the 
edge at the risk of falling in headlong, and watched 
with intense interest the search undertaken by the 
Greek. 

“Hold hard!” cried he at last, annoyed at finding 
nothing; and he seized the rope with his two hands 
to ascend. 

The shadow of Argyropoulos, lighted from below by 
the torch which was still burning at the bottom of the 
well, was projected against the ceiling and cast on it a 
silhouette like that of a monstrous bird. His sun- 
burned face expressed the liveliest disappointment, and 
under his moustache he was biting his lips. 

“There is not a trace of a passage!” he cried; 
“‘and yet the excavation cannot stop here.” 

““ Unless,” said Rumphius, “the Egyptian who 
ordered this tomb died in some distant nome, on a 
voyage, or in battle, the work being then abandoned, as 
is known to have been the case occasionally.” 

‘¢ Let us hope that by dint of searching we shall find 


some secret issue,” returned Lord Evandale; “ other- 


3 33 


betbbeteetettetteteteete test 
THE ROMANCE OP: A M Ui 


wise we shall try to drive a transverse shaft through 
the mountain.” 

“Those confounded Egyptians were clever indeed 
at concealing the entrances to their tombs, — always 
trying to find out some way of putting poor people 
off the track. One would think that they laughed 
in anticipation at the disappointment of searchers,” 
grumbled Argyropoulos. Drawing to the edge of the 
well, the Greek cast a glance, as piercing as that of a 
night-bird, upon the wall of the little chamber which 
formed the upper portion of the well. He saw nothing 
but the ordinary characters of psychostasia, — Osiris 
the judge seated on his throne in the regulation atti- 
tude, holding the crook in the one hand, the whip in 
the other, and the goddesses of Justice and Truth 
leading the spirit of the dead to the tribunal of Amenti. 
Suddenly he seemed to be struck with a new idea, 
and turned sharply around. His long experience as 
an excavator recalled to him a somewhat analogous 
case. In addition, the desire of earning the thousand 
guineas of his lordship spurred up his faculties. He 
took a pick-axe from the hands of a fellah, and began, 
walking backward, to strike sharply right and left on 


the surface of the rock, often at the risk of damaging 


ded abe ooh oh debe ecb checdecb cde ech cbecbeck beck 


ote ny 


PROLOGUE 


some of the hieroglyphs or of breaking the beak or 
the wing-sheath of the sacred hawk or the scarabzus. 

The wall, thus questioned, at last answered the 
hammer and sounded hollow. An exclamation of tri- 
umph broke from the Greek and his eyes flashed; the 
doctor and the nobleman clapped their hands. 

“ Dig here,” said Argyropoulos, who had recovered 
his coolness, to his men. 

An opening large enough to allow a man to pass 
through was made. A gallery running within the 
mountain around the obstacle which the well offered 
to the profane, led to a square hall, the blue vault of 
which rested upon four massive pillars ornamented 
by the red-skinned, white-garmented figures which so 
often show, in Egyptian frescoes, the full bust and the 
head in profile. ‘This hall opened into another, the 
vault of which was somewhat higher and supported by 
two pillars only. Various scenes — the mystic bark, 
the bull Apis bearing the mummy towards the regions 
of the West, the judgment of the soul and the weigh- 
ing of the deeds of the dead in the supreme scales, 
the offerings to the funeral divinities — adorned the 
pillars and the hall. They were carved in flat, low 


relief with sharp outline, but the painter’s brush had 


35 


LALLA ALLLLLAAAL LL AL ALE LL 


oFe OD ote Ore ere 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


not completed the work of the chisel. By the care 
and delicacy of the work might be judged the impor- 
tance of the personage whose tomb it had been sought 
to conceal from the knowledge of men. 

After having spent a few moments in examining 
these carvings, which were in the purest manner of the 
fine Egyptian style of the classical age, the explorers 
perceived that there was no issue from the hall, and 
that they had reached a sort of blind place. The air 
was becoming somewhat rarified, the torches burned 
with difficulty and further augmented the heat of the 
atmosphere, while the smoke formed a dense pall. 
The Greek gave himself to the devil, but that did no 
good. Again the walls were sounded without any 
result. “The mountain, thick and compact, gave back 
but a dead sound; there was no trace of a door, of a 
passage, or of any sort of opening. 

The young nobleman was plainly discouraged, and 
the doctor let fall his arms by his side. Argyropoulos, 
who feared losing his thousand guineas, exhibited the 
fiercest despair. However, the party was compelled to 
retreat, for the heat had become absolutely suffocating. 

They returned to the outer. hall, and there the 


Greek, who could not make up his mind to see his 


36 


KkAKE ALA L ep SSA thet ttttese 
PROLOGUE 


golden dream vanish in smoke, examined with the 
most minute attention the shafts of the pillars to 
make certain that they did not conceal some artifice, 
that they did not mask some trap which might be 
discovered by displacing them; for in his despair 
he mingled the realism of Egyptian architecture with 
the chimerical constructions of the Arab tales. The 
pillars, cut out of the mountain itself, in the centre of 
the hollowed mass, formed part of it, and it would 
have been necessary to employ gunpowder to break 
them down. All hope was gone. 

‘¢ Nevertheless,” said Rumphius, ‘this labyrinth was 
not dug for nothing. Somewhere or another there 
must be a passage like the one which goes around the 
well. No doubt the dead man was afraid of being 
disturbed by importunate persons and he had himself 
carefully concealed; but with patience and persever- 
ance you can get anywhere. Perhaps a slab carefully 
concealed, the joint of which cannot be seen, owing to 
the dust scattered over the ground, covers some descent 
which leads, directly or indirectly, to the funeral hall.’ 

“You are right, doctor,” said Evandale; ‘those 
accursed Egyptians jointed stones as closely as the 


hinges of an English trap. Let us go on looking.” 
37 


abs aby obs ele oll aby ole alle obs alle ole obolle ole ole ob ole obo ole abe alle ofl cfr oll 


ONS OTS CHO Vie CIO Wie BIO BIE BIO Cle GIO VIS ee VIO ere wie we we vue 


THE ROMANCE OFA MUMMY 


The doctor’s idea struck the Greek as sound, and he 
made his fellahs walk about every part and corner of 
the hall, tapping the ground. At last, not far from the 
third pillar a dull resonance struck on the practised 
ear of the Greek. He threw himself on his knees to 
examine the spot, brushing away with the ragged bur- 
nouse one of his Arabs had thrown him the impalpable 
dust of thirty-five centuries. A black, narrow, sharp 
line showed, and, carefully followed out, marked out on 
the ground an oblong slab. 

*¢ Did I not tell you,” cried the enthusiastic doctor, 
‘“‘that the passage could not end in this way ?” 

“© am really troubled,” said Lord Evandale, in his 
quaint, phlegmatic British fashion, ‘¢ at disturbing the 
last sleep of the poor unknown body which did expect 
to rest in peace until the end of the world. The 
dweller below would willingly dispense with our visit.” 

‘The more so that a third party is lacking to make the 
presentation formal,” replied the doctor. ‘ But do not 
be anxious, my lord, I have lived long enough in the 
days of the Pharaohs to present you to the illustrious 
personage who inhabits this subterranean passage.” 

Crow-bars were applied to the narrow fissure, and 


after a short time the stone moved and was raised. A 


38 


staircase with high, steep steps, sinking into darkness, 
awaited the impatient travellers, who rushed down pell- 
mell. A sloping gallery painted on both walls with 
figures and hieroglyphs came next, then at the end of 
the gallery some more steps leading to a short corridor, 
a sort of vestibule to a hall in the same style as the first 
one, but larger and upborne by six pillars cut out of 
the living rock. The ornamentation was richer, and 
the usual motives of funeral paintings were multiplied 
on a yellow background. ‘To the right and to the left 
opened in the rock two small crypts or chambers filled 
with funeral statuettes of enamelled ware, bronze, and 
sycamore wood. 

“© We are in the antechamber of the hall where the 


|» 


sarcophagus is bound to be cried Rumphius, his 
clear gray eyes flashing with joy from below his spec- 
tacles, which he had pushed back over his forehead. 

“ Up to the present,’ said Lord Evandale, “the 
Greek has kept his word. We are the first living 
men who have penetrated so far since the dead, 
whoever he may be, was left with eternity and the 
unknown in this tomb.” 


> 


“¢Oh, he must be some great personage,” replied the 


doctor; “a king or a king’s son, at the very least. I 
g g ) y 


39 


ttpbbrbbttbbbthdtdbdttdd debt 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


shall tell you later when I have deciphered his car- 
touche. But first let us enter this hall, the finest, 
the most important, which the Egyptians called the 
Golden Hall.” 

Lord Evandale walked ahead, a few steps before the 
less agile scholar, though perhaps the latter deferen- 
tially wished to leave the pleasure of the discovery to 
the young nobleman. 

As he was about to step across the threshold, Lord 
Evandale bent forward as if something unexpected had 
struck him. ‘Though accustomed not to manifest his 
emotions, he was unable to repress a prolonged and 
thoroughly British “Oh!” On the fine gray powder 
which covered the ground showed very distinctly, with 
the imprint of the toes and the great bone of the heel, 
the shape of a human foot, —the foot of the last priest 
or the last friend who had withdrawn, fifteen hundred 
years before Christ, after having paid the last honours 
to the dead. The dust, which in Egypt is as eternal 
as granite, had moulded the print and preserved it for 
more than thirty centuries, just as the hardened diluvian 
mud has preserved the tracks of the animals which last 
traversed it. 


“‘See,” said Evandale to Rumphius, “that human 


40 


PROLOGUE 


footprint which is directed towards the exit from the 
hypogeum! In what narrow passage of the Libyan 
chain rests the mummified body that made it ?”’ 

“Who knows?” replied the scholar. “In any 
case, that light print, which a breath would have 
blown away, has lasted longer than empires, than 
religions and monuments believed eternal. The 
noble dust of Alexander was used perhaps to stop 
a bung-hole, as Hamlet says, but the footprint of 
this unknown Egyptian remains on the threshold of 
a tomb,” 

Urged bya curiosity which did not allow them much 
time for recollection, the nobleman and the doctor 
entered the hall, taking care, nevertheless, not to efface 
the wondrous footprint. On entering, the impassible 
Evandale felt a strange emotion; it seemed to him, as 
Shakespeare says, that the time was out of joint. The 
feeling of modern life vanished, he forgot Great Britain 
and his name inscribed on the rolls of the peerage, his 
seat in Lincolnshire, his mansion in the West End, 
Hyde Park, Piccadilly, the Queen’s Drawing-Room, 
the Yacht Squadron, and all that constituted his English 
existence. An invisible hand had turned upside down 


the sand-glass of eternity, and the centuries which had 


41 


ooh sabe ole oe bs che che abe cbc obec cb oe de coe oe doa 


COD VS OFS VES CHS OFS 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


fallen one by one, like the hours, in the solitude of the 
night, were falling once more. History was as if it 
were not: Moses was living, Pharaoh was reigning, 
and he, Lord Evandale, felt embarrassed because he did 
not wear his beard in ringlets, and had not an enam- 
elled neck-plate and a narrow vestment wrinkling in 
folds upon his hips, — the only suitable dress in which 
to be presented to a royal mummy. A sort of religious 
horror filled him, although there was nothing sinister 
about the place, as he violated this palace of death so 
carefully protected against profanation. His attempt 
seemed to him impious and sacrilegious, and he said to 
himself, ‘‘Suppose this Pharaoh were to rise on his 
couch and strike me with his sceptre.’’ For one mo- 
ment he thought of letting fall the shroud half lifted 
from the body of this antique, dead civilisation, but the 
doctor, carried away by scientific enthusiasm, and not 
a prey to such thoughts, shouted in a loud voice, “« My 
lord, my lord, the sarcophagus is intact ! ” 

These words recalled Lord Evandale to reality. 
By swift projection of his thought he traversed the 
thirty-five hundred years which he had gone back in 


his reverie, and he answered, “‘ Indeed, dear doctor, 


intact?” 


42 


check ache oe ce be che che abe de cleo obec abe cde oe eso 
PROLOGUE 


‘¢ Oh, unexpected luck! oh, marvellous chance! oh, 
wondrous find!” continued the doctor, in the excite- 
ment of a scholarly joy. 

Argyropoulos, on beholding the doctor’s enthusiasm, 
felt a pang of remorse, —the only kind of remorse that 
he could feel, — at not having asked more than twenty- 
five thousand francs. ‘I wasa fool!” he said to him- 
self. “This shall not happen again. ‘That nobleman 
has robbed me.” 

In order to enable the strangers to enjoy the beauty 
of the spectacle, the fellahs had lighted all their torches. 
The sight was indeed strange and magnificent. ‘The 
galleries and halls which led to the sarcophagus hall 
were flat-ceiled and not more than eight or ten feet 
high; but the sanctuary, the one to which all these 
labyrinths led, was of much greater proportions. Lord 
Evandale and Dr. Rumphius remained dumb with ad- 
miration, although they were already familiar with the 
funereal splendours of Egyptian art. Thus lighted up, 
the Golden Hall flamed, and for the first time, perhaps, 
the colours of the paintings shone in all their brilliancy. 
Red and blue, green and white, of virginal purity, bril- 
liantly fresh and amazingly clear, stood out from the 


golden background of the figures and hieroglyphs, and 
43 


che cleo che oe oh a oe oe ob toad coc ch che ch cece ce oe cre 


we oe Ve ee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


attracted the eye before the subjects which they formed 
could be discerned. At first glance it looked like a 
vast tapestry of the richest stuffs. The vault, some 
thirty feet high, formed a sort of azure velarium bor- 
dered with long yellow palm-leaves. On the walls the 
symbolical globe spread its mighty wings and the royal 
cartouches showed around. Farther on, Isis and Neph- 
thys waved their arms furnished with feathers like 
wings; the uraus swelled its blue throat, the scara- 
baus unfolded its wings, the animal-headed gods 
pricked up their jackal ears, sharpened their hawk’s- 
beaks, wrinkled their baboon faces, and drew into their 
shoulders their vulture or serpent necks as if they were 
endowed with life. Mystical consecrated boats (baris) 
passed by on their sledges drawn by figures in attitudes 
of sadness, with angular gestures, or propelled by half- 
naked oarsmen, they floated upon symbolical undulating 
waves. Mourners kneeling, their hand placed on their 
blue hair in token of grief, turned towards the cata- 
falques, while shaven priests, leopard-skin on shoulder, 
burned perfumes in a spatula terminating in a hand 
bearing a cup under the nose of the godlike dead. 
Other personages offered to the funeral genii lotus in 


bloom or in bud, bulbous plants, birds, pieces of ante- 


44 


tkbekkhebbedettttttbttdtdt db ttt 
PROLOGUE 


lope, and vases of liquors. Acephalous figures of Jus- 
tice brought souls before Osiris, whose arms were set 
in inflexible contour, and who was assisted by the forty- 
two judges of Amenti, seated in two rows and bearing 
an ostrich-plume on their heads, the forms of which 
were borrowed from every realm of zodlogy. 

All these figures, drawn in hollowed lines in the 
limestone and painted in the brightest colours, were 
endowed with that motionless life, that frozen motion, 
that mysterious intensity of Egyptian art, which was 
hemmed in by the priestly rule, and which resembles a 
gageed man trying to utter his secret. 

In the centre of the hall rose, massive and splendid, 
the sarcophagus, cut out of a solid block of black 
basalt and closed by a cover of the same material, 
carved in the shape of an arch. ‘The four sides of the 
funeral monolith were covered with figures and hiero- 
glyphs as carefully engraved as the intaglio of a gem, 
although the Egyptians did not know the use of iron, 
and the grain of basalt is hard enough to blunt the best- 
tempered steel. Imagination loses itself when it tries 
to discover the process by which that marvellous peo- 
ple wrought on porphyry and granite as with a style 


on wax tablets. 


45 


che sobs obs oy ce ote ce oho he decree look cb och ooo oe ho abe 


aie ate ote one ofe we vee ve 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 

At the angles of the sarcophagus were set four vases 
of oriental alabaster, of most elegant and perfect out- 
line, the carved covers of which represented the man’s 
head of ’Amset, the monkey head of Hapi, the jackal 
head of —Tuamutef, and the hawk head of Kebhsnauf. 
The vases contained the viscere of the mummy 
enclosed in the sarcophagus. At the head of the tomb 
an effigy of Osiris with plaited beard seemed to watch 
over the dead. “Two coloured statues of women stood 
right and left of the tomb, supporting, with one hand 
a square box on their head, and holding in the other 
a vase for ablutions which they rested on their hip. 
The one was dressed in a simple white skirt clinging 
to the hips and held up by crossed braces; the other, 
more richly costumed, was wrapped in a sort of narrow 
shift, covered with scales alternately red and green. By 
the side of the first there were three water-jars, origi- 
nally filled with Nile water, which, as it evaporated, had 
left its mud, and a plate holding some alimentary paste, 
now dried up. By the side of the second, two small 
ships, like the model ships made in seaports, which 
reproduced accurately, the one the minutest details of 
the boats destined to bear the bodies from Diospolis to 


Memnonia, the other the symbolical boat in which the 


46 


decks tec ok ds ce ke obo betel cfecbe abe obec obec oh che hoch 


ed ere efe 


PROLOGUE 


soul is carried to the regions of the West. Nothing 
was forgotten,— neither the masts, nor the rudder 
formed of one long sweep, nor the pilot, nor the 
oarsmen, nor the mummy surrounded by mourners 
and lying under the shrine on a bed with feet formed 
of lion’s claws, nor the allegorical figures of the fune- 
ral divinities fulfilling their sacred functions, Both 
the boats and the figures were painted in brilliant 
colours, and on the two sides of the prow, beak-like 
as the poop, showed the great Osiris’ eye, made longer 
still by the use of antimony. The bones and skull 
of an ox scattered here and there showed that a victim 
had been offered up as a scapegoat to the Fate which 
might have disturbed the repose of the dead. Coffers 
painted and bedizened with hieroglyphs were placed 
on the tomb; reed tables yet bore the final offerings. 
Nothing had been touched in this palace of death 
since the day when the mummy in its cartonnage and 
its two coffins had been placed upon its basalt couch. 
The worm of the sepulchre, which can find a way 
through the closest biers, had itself retreated, driven 
back by the bitter scent of the bitumen and the aro- 
matic essences. 


“Shall I open the sarcophagus?” said Argyropou- 
47 


ah a ae baobab ee he do obec cece bea le chee ce ce eae eo 


we oFTe ere ere ows oe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


los, after Lord Evandale and Doctor Rumphius had 
had time to admire the beauty of the Golden Hall. 

“¢ Unquestionably,” replied the nobleman; ‘‘ but take 
care not to chip the edges of the cover as you put in 
your crow-bars, for I propose to carry off the tomb 
and present it to the British Museum.” 

The whole company bent their efforts to displacing 
the monolith. Wooden wedges were carefully driven 
in, and presently the huge stone was moved and slid 
down the props prepared to receive it. [he sarcopha- 
gus having been opened, showed the first bier hermet- 
ically sealed. It was a coffer adorned with paintings 
and gilding, representing a sort of shrine with symmet- 
rical designs, lozenges, quadrilles, palm leaves, and lines 
of hieroglyphs. “Ihe cover was opened, and Rumphius, 
who was bending over the sarcophagus, uttered a cry 
of surprise when he discovered the contents of the 
coffin, having recognised the sex of the mummy by the 
absence of the Osiris beard and the shape of the car- 
tonnage. The Greek himself appeared amazed. His 
long experience in excavations enabled him to under- 
stand the strangeness of such a find. The valley of 
Biban el Moltik contains the tombs of kings only: the 


necropolis of the queens is situated farther away, in an- 


48 


pa sabe oe ce ects che ce oo ected acto afe oo 


ew oe wie 61O Wye vie whe Cie Vie Wie ate viv 


PROLOGUE 


other mountain gorge. [he tombs of the queens are 
very simple, and usually consist of two or three passage- 
ways and one or two rooms. Women in the East 
have always been considered as inferior to men, even in 
death. Most of these tombs, which were broken into 
at a very distant period, were used as receptacles for 
shapeless mummies carelessly embalmed, which still ex-~ 
hibit traces of leprosy and elephantiasis. How did this 
woman’s coffin come to occupy this royal sarcophagus, 
in the centre of this cryptic palace worthy of the most 
illustrious and most powerful of the Pharaohs? 

“ This,”’ said the doctor to Lord Evandale, “ upsets all 
my notions and all my theories. It overthrows the sys- 
tem most carefully built upon the Egyptian funeral rites, 
which nevertheless have been so carefully followed out 
during thousands of years. No doubt we have come 
upon some obscure point, some forgotten mystery of 
history. A woman did ascend the throne of the Pha- 
raohs and did govern Egypt. She was called Tahoser, 
as we learn from the cartouches engraved upon older 
inscriptions hammered away. She usurped the tomb 
as she usurped the throne. Or perhaps some other 
ambitious woman, of whom history has preserved no 


trace, renewed her attempt.” 


4 ' 49 


SELLE ASSESS etete tere 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


“No one is better able to solve this dificult problem 
than you,” said Lord Evandale. ‘ We will carry this 
box full of secrets to our boat, where you will, at your 
leisure, decipher this historic document and read the 
riddle set by these hawks, scarabzi, kneeling figures, 
serrated lines, winged urzeus, and spatula hands, which 
you read as readily as did the great Champollion.” 

The fellahs, under the orders of Argyropoulos, car- 
ried off the huge coffer on their shoulders, and the 
mummy, performing in an inverse direction the funeral 
travel it had accomplished in the days of Moses, in a 
painted and gilded bari preceded by a long procession, 
was embarked upon the sandal which had brought the 
travellers, soon reached the vessel moored on the Nile, 
and was placed in the cabin, which was not unlike, so 
little do forms change in Egypt, the shrine of the 
funeral boat. 

Argyropoulos, having arranged about the box all the 
objects which had been found near it, stood respect- 
fully at the cabin door and appeared to be waiting. 
Lord Evandale understood, and ordered his valet to 
pay him the twenty-five thousand francs. 

The open bier was placed upon rests in the centre 


of the cabin; it shone as brilliantly as if the colours 


50 


SLELEALAELAPAAEA ASE ALE ESS 
PROLOGUE 


had been put on the day before, and framed in the 
mummy, moulded within its cartonnage, the workman- 
ship of which was remarkably fine and rich. Never 
had ancient Egypt more carefully wrapped up one of 
her children for the eternal sleep. Although no shape 
was indicated by the funeral Hermes, ending in a 
sheath from which stood out alone the shoulders and 
the head, one could guess there was under that thick 
envelope a young and graceful form. The gilded 
mask, with its long eyes outlined with black and bright- 
ened with enamel, the nose with its delicate nostrils, 
the rounded cheek-bones, the half-open lips smiling 
with an indescribable, sphinx-like smile, the chin 
somewhat short in curve but of extreme beauty of 
contour, presented the purest type of the Egyptian 
ideal, and testified by a thousand small, characteristic 
details which art cannot invent, to the individual char- 
acter of the portrait. Numberless fine plaits of hair, 
tressed with cords and separated by bandeaux, fell in 
opulent masses on either side of the face. A lotus 
stem, springing from the back of the neck, bowed over 
the head and opened its azure calyx over the dead, cold 
brow, completing with a funeral cone this rich and 


elegant head-dress. 


51 


ae abe abs ole abe obs fe cls fe abe obs clo che cle ole ofr obs obs obo obs obs ofr ae obe 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


A broad necklace, composed of fine enamels cloi- 
sonnés with gold and formed of several rows, lay 
upon the lower portion of the neck, and allowed to 
be seen the clean, firm contour of two virgin breasts 
like two golden cups. 

The sacred ram-headed bird, bearing between its 
green horns the red disc of the setting sun and sup- 
ported by two serpents wearing the pschent and swell- 
ing out their hoods, showed on the bosom of the figure 
its monstrous form full of symbolic meaning. Lower 
down, in the spaces left free by the crossed zones, and 
rayed with brilliant colours representing bandages, the 
vulture of Phra, crowned with a globe, with out- 
spread wings, the body covered with symmetrically ar- 
ranged feathers, and the tail spread out fanwise, held 
in its talons the huge Tau, emblem of immortal- 
ity. The funeral gods, green-faced, with the mouths 
of monkeys or jackals, held out with a gesture hieratic 
in its stiffness the whip, the crook, and the sceptre. 
The eye of Osiris opened its red ball outlined with 
antimony. Celestial snakes swelled their hoods around 
the sacred discs; symbolical figures projected their 
feathered arms; and the two goddesses of the Begin- 


ning and the End, their hair powdered with blue dust, 


52 


LEELA AELELELELALLALALL LALLA 
PROLOGUE 


bare down to below the breasts and the rest of the 
body wrapped in a close-fitting skirt, knelt in Egyp- 
tian fashion on green and red cushions adorned with 
heavy tufts. 

A longitudinal band of hieroglyphs, springing from 
the belt and running down to the feet, contained no 
doubt some formal funeral ritual, or rather, the names 
and titles of the deceased, a problem which Dr. Rum~ 
phius promised himself to solve later. 

The character of the drawing, the boldness of the 
lines, the brilliancy of the colours in all these paintings 
denoted in the plainest manner to a practised eye that 
they belonged to the finest period of Egyptian art. 
When the English nobleman and his companion had 
sufficiently studied this outer case, they drew the 
cartonnage from the box and set it up against the 
side of the cabin, where the funeral form, with its 
gilded mask, presented a strange spectacle, standing 
upright like a materialised spectre and with a seeming 
attitude of life, after having preserved so long the 
horizontal attitude of death ona basalt bed in the 
heart of the mountain, opened up by impious curiosity. 
The soul of the deceased, which had reckoned on 


eternal rest and which had taken such care to preserve 


53 


ely obn obs ole by obs ob» obs olls ole obs bv che oly ofr ole abv obs oe oe be obo obs obs 


SOR CFS GS CHS CHS CFS CO UID WS WS GO CFO CTS WS 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUST 


he 


its remains from violation, must have been moved, 
beyond the worlds, in the circuit of its travels and 
transmigrations. 

Dr. Rumphius, armed with a chisel and a hammer, 
to separate the two parts of the cartonnage of the 
mummy, looked like one of those funeral genii which 
wear a bestial mask and which are seen in the paint- 
ings of the hypogea crowding around the dead in the 
performance of some frightful and mysterious rite ; 
the clean profile of Lord Evandale, calm and atten- 
tive, made him look like the divine Osiris awaiting 
the soul to be judged. 

The operation having been at length completed — 
for the doctor wished not to scale off the gilding, — 
the box, resting on the ground, was separated into 
two parts like the casing of a cast, and the mummy 
appeared in all the brilliancy of its death toilet, 
coquettishly adorned as if it had wished to charm 
the genii of the subterranean realms. On opening the 
case, a faint, delightful, aromatic odour of cedar liq- 
uor, of sandal powder, of myrrh and cinnamon spread 
through the cabin of the vessel; for the body had not 
been gummed up and hardened with the black bitumen 


used in embalming the bodies of ordinary persons, and 


a+ 


——————$ ee 


dhecbe ecb ck ch hohe he che cc obecbe cde cde ede ob och 
PROLOGUE 


all the skill of the embalmers, the former inhabitants 
of Memnonia, seemed to have been directed to the 
preservation of these precious remains. 

The head was enveloped in a network of narrow 
bands of fine linen, through which the face showed 
faintly. “che essences in which they had been steeped 
had dyed the tissue a beautiful tawny tint. Over the 
breast a network of fine tubes of blue glass, very like 
the long jet beads which are used to embroider Spanish 
bodices, with little golden drops wherever the tubes 
crossed, fell down to. the feet and formed a pearly 
shroud worthy of a queen. ‘The statuettes of the 
four gods of Amenti in hammered gold shone bril- 
liantly, and were symmetrically arranged along the 
upper edge of the network, which ended below in 
a fringe of most tasteful ornaments. Between the 
statuettes of the funeral gods was a golden plate, 
above which a lapis-lazuli scarabzeus spread out its 
long golden wings. Under the mummy’s head was 
placed a rich mirror of polished metal, as if it had 
been desired to give the dead soul an opportunity of 
beholding the spectre of its beauty during the long 
night of the tomb. By the mirror lay a coffer of 


enamelled ware, of most precious workmanship, which 


55 


bebbtbb tet detttetdtttetetke 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


contained a necklace composed of ivory rings alter- 
nating with beads, gold, lapis-lazuli, and cornelian. 
By the side of the beauty had been placed also a 
narrow, square sandal-wood basin in which, during 
her lifetime, the dead woman had performed her 
perfumed ablutions. ‘Three vases of wavy alabaster 
fastened to the bier, as was also the mummy, by 
a layer of natron, contained, the first two, essences, 
the scent of which could still be noticed, and the 
third, antimony powder and a small spatula for the 
purpose of colouring the edge of the eyelids and 
extending the outer angle according to the antique 
Egyptian usage, still practised at the present time by 
Eastern women. 

“ What a touching custom!” said Dr. Rumphius, 
excited by the sight of these treasures; ‘what a 
touching custom it was to bury with a young woman 
all her pretty toilet articles! For it is a young woman 
unquestionably that’ these linen bands, yellow with 
time and with essences, envelop. Compared with 
the Egyptians, we are downright barbarians ; hurried 
on by our brutal way of living, we have lost the 
delicate sense of death. How much tenderness, how 


much regard, how much love do not these minute 


56 


LEAAA ALL ALLA AAAS ASAD LAA LSS 
PROLOGUE 


cares reveal, these infinite precautions, these useless 
caresses bestowed upon a senseless body, — that strug- 
gle to snatch from destruction an adored form and to 
restore it intact to the soul on the day of the supreme 
reunion ! ” 

“¢ Perhaps,” replied Lord Evandale, very thoughtful, 
“ our civilisation, which we think so highly developed, 
is, after all, but a great decadence which has lost even 
the historical remembrance of the gigantic societies 
which have disappeared. We are stupidly proud of 
a few ingenious pieces of mechanism which we have 
recently invented, and we forget the colossal splen- 
dours and the vast works impossible to any other 
nation, which are found in the ancient land of the 
Pharaohs. We have steam, but steam is less power- 
ful than the force which built the Pyramids, dug out 
hypogea, carved mountains into the shapes of sphinxes 
and obelisks, sealed halls with one great stone which 
all our engines could not move, cut out monolithic 
chapels, and saved frail human remains from anni- 
hilation, —so deep a sense of eternity did it already 
possess.” 

‘Oh, the Egyptians,” said Dr. Rumphius, smiling, 


“©were wonderful architects, amazing artists, and great 


57 


LEALLALLAAPAA AAA SL etetets 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
scholars. A priest of Memphis and of Thebes could 
have taught even our German scholars; and as 
regards symbolism, they were greater than any sym- 
bolists of our day. But we shall succeed eventually 
in deciphering their hieroglyphs and penetrating their 
mysteries. “The great Champollion has made out 
their alphabet ; we shall easily read their granite books. 
Meanwhile, let us strip, as delicately as possible, this 
young beauty who is more than three thousand years 
of age.” 

‘¢ Poor woman !”? murmured the young lord.  Pro- 
fane eyes will now behold the mysterious charms 
which love itself perhaps never saw. ‘Truly, under 
the empty pretext of scientific pursuit, we are as 
barbarous as the Persians of Cambyses, and if I 
were not afraid of driving to despair this worthy 
scholar, I should enclose you again, without having 
stripped off your last veil, within the triple box of 
your bier.” 

Dr. Rumphius raised from the casing the mummy, 
which was no heavier than a child’s body, and began 
to unwrap it with motherly skill and lightness of 
touch. He first of all undid the outer envelope of 


linen, sewed together and impregnated with palm 


58 


che foots ale oe obs oboe abe abe abe choca ob a cba ol ab ba efe ae oft afr 


Ce Ate ale deo ee OP WIS Vie wie VIO Vie SHS GIS VTw WIV ca” 


PROLOGUE 


wine, and the broad bands which here and there 
girdled the body. ‘Then he took hold of the end 
of a thin, narrow band, the infinite windings of which 
enclosed the limbs of the young Egyptian. He rolled 
up the band on itself as cleverly as the most skilful 
embalmer of the City of the Dead, following it up 
in all its meanderings and circumvolutions. As he 
progressed in his work, the mummy, freed from its 
envelope, like a statue which a sculptor blocks out 
of the marble, appeared more slender and exquisite 
in form. ‘Ihe bandage having been unrolled, another 
Narrower one was seen, intended to bind the body 
more closely. It was of such fine linen, and so finely 
woven, that it was comparable to modern cambric 
and muslin. This bandage followed accurately every 
outline, imprisoning the fingers and the toes, mould- 
ing like a mask the features of the face, which was 
visible through the thin tissue. The aromatic balm 
in which it had been steeped had stiffened it, and as 
it came away under the fingers of the doctor, it gave 
out a little dry sound like that of paper that is being 
crushed or torn. There remained but one turn to 
be taken off, and familiar though he was with such 


work, Dr. Rumphius stopped for a moment, either 


59 


ded oboe ok ch deck ok ecbeche check oh ch ch check ok eho 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


through respect for the dead, or through that feeling 
which prevents a man from breaking open a letter, 
from opening a door, from raising a veil which hides 
a secret that he burns to learn. He ascribed his 
momentary pause to fatigue, and as a matter of fact, 
the perspiration was dripping from his forehead with- 
out his thinking of wiping it with his great blue- 
checked handkerchief; but fatigue had nothing to do 
with it Meanwhile the dead form showed through 
the fine, gauze-like stuff, and some gold work shone 
faintly through it as well. 

The last wrapping taken off, the young woman 
showed in the chaste nudity of her lovely form, pre- 
serving, in spite of so many centuries that had passed 
away, the fulness of her contours, and the easy 
grace of her pure lines. Her pose, an infrequent one 
in the case of mummies, was that of the Venus of 
Medici, as if the embalmers had wished to save this 
beautiful body from the set attitude of death and to 
soften the inflexible rigidity of the cadaver. | 

A cry of admiration was uttered at the same time 
by Rumphius and Evandale at the sight of the marvel. 
Never did a Greek or Roman statue present a more 


beautiful appearance. ‘The peculiar characteristics of 


60 


LEE ALEDLL SELL beh tbe 
PROLOGUE 


the Egyptian ideal gave indeed to this lovely body, so 
miraculously preserved, a slenderness and a grace 
lacking in antique marbles,—the long hands, the 
high-bred, narrow feet, the nails shining like agate, 
the slender waist, the shape of the breasts, small and 
turned up like a sandal beneath the veil which 
enveloped it, the slightly protruding contour of the 
hip, the roundness of the thigh, the somewhat long 
leg recalling the slender grace of the musicians and 
dancers represented on the frescoes of funeral repasts 
in the Thebes hypogea. It was a shape still childish 
in its gracefulness, yet possessing already all the per- 
fections of a woman which Egyptian art expresses 
with such tender suavity, whether it paints the walls 
of the passages with a brush, or whether it patiently 
carves the hard basalt. 

As a general rule mummies which have been filled 
with bitumen and natron resemble black simulacra 
carved in ebony; corruption cannot attack them, but 
the appearance of life is wholly lacking; the bodies 
have not returned to the dust whence they came, 
but they have been petrified in a hideous shape, 
which one cannot contemplate without disgust and 


terror. In this case, the body, carefully prepared by 


61 


HEELLEALLLLLALALALLA LAL LESS | 
THE ROMANCE?! OF FAY Vie 


surer, longer, and more costly processes, had pre- 
served the elasticity of the flesh, the grain of the 
skin, and almost its natural colour. ‘The skin, of a 
light brown, had the golden tint of a new Florentine 
bronze, and the amber, warm tone which is admired 
in the paintings of Giorgione and ‘Titian covered 
with a smoky varnish, was not very different from 
what must have been the complexion of the young 
Egyptian during her lifetime. She seemed to be 
asleep rather than dead. ‘The eyelids, still fringed 
with their long lashes, allowed eyes lustrous with the 
humid gleam of life to shine between their lines of 
antimony. One could have sworn they were about 
to shake off, as a light dream, their sleep of thirty 
centuries. The nose, delicate and fine, preserved its 
pure outline; no depression deformed the cheeks, 
which were as round as the side of a vase; the mouth, 
coloured with a faint blush, had preserved its imper- 
ceptible lines, and on the lips, voluptuously moulded, 
fluttered a melancholy and mysterious smile, full of 
gentleness, sadness, and charm,—that tender and 
resigned smile which pouts so prettily the lips of the 
adorable heads which surmount the Canopean vases 


in the Louvre. 


62 


decked eae oe ee oe be cdececbeclee bec ctele ch eet 
PROLOGUE 


Around the forehead, low and smooth in accordance 
with the laws of antique beauty, was massed jet-black 
hair divided and plaited into a multitude of fine tresses 
which fell on either shoulder. “Twenty golden pins 
stuck into the tresses, like flowers in a ball head-dress, 
studded with brilliant points the thick dark hair 
which might have been thought artificial, so abundant 
was it. “Iwo great earrings, round discs resembling 
small bucklers, shimmered with yellow light by the 
side of the brown cheeks. A magnificent necklace, 
composed of three rows of divinities and amulets in 
gold and precious stones, encircled the neck of thc 
coquettish mummy, and lower down upon her breast 
hung two other collars, the pearl, gold, lapis-lazuli, and 
cormelian rosettes of which alternated symmetrically 
with the most perfect taste. A girdle of nearly the 
same design enclosed her waist with a belt of gold and 
gems. A double bracelet of gold and cornelian beads 
adorned her left wrist, and on the index of the left 
hand shone a very small scarabzus of golden cloisonné 
enamel, which formed a seal ring and was held by a 
gold thread most marvellously plaited. 

Strange were the sensations of the two men as they 


found themselves face to face with a human being who 


63 


ch rosa obe ofa ho he oe abe abe cece obec ole abe eof ool ot toch 


ore ete 


THE ROMANCE (OF’ A) MURR 


had lived in the days when history was yet young and 
was collecting the stories told by tradition; face to face 
with a body contemporary with Moses, which yet pre- 
served the exquisite form of youth; as they touched the 
gentle little hand impregnated with perfumes, which a 
Pharaoh perhaps had kissed; as they fingered the hair, 
more durable than empire, more solid than granite 
monuments. At the sight of the lovely dead girl, the 
young nobleman felt the retrospective desire often in- 
spired by the sight of a statue or a painting represent- 
ing a woman of past days famous for her beauty. It 
seemed to him that he would have loved, had he 
lived three thousand years earlier, that beauty which 
nothingness had refused to destroy; and the sym- 
pathetic thought perhaps reached the restless soul that 
fluttered above its profaned frame. 

Far less poetic than the young nobleman, Dr. Rum- 
phius was making the inventory of the gems, without, 
however, taking them off; for Evandale had ordered 
that the mummy should not be deprived of this last 
frail consolation. ‘To take away gems from a woman, 
even dead, is to kill her a second time. Suddenly a 
papyrus roll concealed between the side and arm of the 


mummy caught the doctor’s eye. 


64 


deck cle ok oh decks ch oe decteche debra ded cb cheb oe deat 


“Oh!” said he, “this is no doubt a copy of the 
funeral ritual placed in the inner coffin and written 
with more or less care according to the wealth and 
rank of the person.” 

He unrolled the delicate band with infinite precau- 

tions. As soon as the first lines showed, he exhibited 
surprise, for he did not recognise the ordinary figures 
and signs of the ritual. In vain he sought in the usual 
places for the vignettes representing the funeral, which 
serve as a frontispiece to such papyri, nor did he find 
the Litany of the Hundred Names of Osiris, nor the 
soul’s passport, nor the petition to the gods of Amenti. 
Drawings of a peculiar kind illustrated entirely different 
scenes connected with human life, and not with the 
voyage of the shade to the world beyond. Chapters 
and paragraphs seemed to be indicated by characters 
written in red, evidently for the purpose of distinguish- 
ing them from the remainder of the text, which was 
in black, and of calling the attention of the reader to 
interesting points. An inscription placed at the head 
appeared to contain the title of the work, and the 
name of the grammat who had written or copied it, — 
so much, at least, did the sagacious intuition of the 


doctor make out at the first glance. 


5 65 


de che ae oe oe oe de he de ce eco ce oooh ooo oe be oho 


ere ee OS ate OTe ee ete oTe oe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
“Undoubtedly, my lord, we have robbed Master 


b] 


Argyropoulos,” said he to Evandale, as he pointed out 
the differences between the papyrus and the usual rit- 
ual, ‘This is the first time that an Egyptian manu- 
script has been found to contain anything else than 
hieratic formule. I am bound to decipher it, even 
if it costs me my sight, even if my beard grows 
thrice around my desk. Yes, I shall ferret out your 
secret, mysterious Egypt! Yes, I shall learn your 
story, you lovely dead; for that papyrus pressed close 
to your heart by your lovely arm surely contains 
it. And I shall be covered with glory, become 
the equal of Champollion, and make Lepsius die 
of jealousy.” 

The nobleman and the doctor returned to Europe. 
The mummy, wrapped up again in all its bandages and 
replaced within its three cases, rests within Lord Evan- 
dale’s park in Lincolnshire, in the basalt sarcophagus 
which he brought at great expense from Biban el 
Molik and which he did not give to the British 
Museum. Sometimes Lord Evandale leans upon the 
sarcophagus, sinks into a deep reverie, and sighs. 

After three years of unflagging application, Dr. 


Rumphius succeeded in deciphering the mysterious 


66 


—— ee Se ane Gre WTO oFe on Nis 


papyrus, save in some damaged parts, and in others 
which contained unknown signs. And it is his trans~ 
lation into Latin — which we have turned into French 
— that you are about to read, under the name, “ ‘The 


Romance of a Mummy.” 


67 


PH (that is the name of the city which 

antiquity called Thebes of the Hundred 

Gates, or Diospolis Magna), seemed 

asleep under the burning beams of the blazing sun. It 

was noon. A white light fell from the pale sky upon 

the baked earth; the sand, shimmering and scintillat- 

ing, shone like burnished metal; shadows there were 

none, save a narrow, bluish line at the foot of build- 

ings, like the inky line with which an architect draws 

upon papyrus; the houses, whose walls sloped well 

inwards, glowed like bricks invan oven;. every door 

was closed, and no one showed at the windows, which 
were closed with blinds of reeds. 

At the end of the deserted streets and above the ter- 
races stood out in the hot, transparent air the tips of 
obelisks, the tops of pylons, the entablatures of palaces 
and temples, whose capitals, formed of human faces or 
lotus flowers, showed partially, breaking the horizontal 


lines of the roofs and rising like reefs amid the mass 


68 


of 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


sbedke oh che o ob 


of private buildings. Here and there above a garden 
wall shot up the scaly trunk of a palm tree ending in a 
plume of leaves, not one of which stirred, for never a 
breath blew. Acacias, mimosas, and Pharaoh fig-trees 
formed a cascade of foliage that cast a narrow blue 
shadow upon the dazzling brilliancy of the ground. 
These green spots refreshed and enlivened the solemn 
aridity of the picture, which but for them would have 
been that of a dead city, 

A few slaves of the Nahasi race, black complex. 
ioned, monkey-faced, with bestial gait, alone braving 
the heat of the day, were bearing to their masters’ 
homes the water drawn from the Nile in jars that were 
hung from a stick placed on their shoulder. Although 
they wore nothing but striped drawers wrinkling on 
their hips, their torsos, brilliant and polished like basalt, 
streamed with perspiration as they quickened their 
pace lest they should scorch the thick soles of their 
feet on the pavements, which were as hot as the floor 
of a vapour bath. The boatmen were asleep in the 
cabins of their boats moored to the brick wall of the 
river quay, sure that no one would waken them to cross 
to the other bank, where lay the Memnonia quarter. 


In the highest heaven wheeled vultures, whose shrill 


69 


LLAACAL ALL ALLEL ete tee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


call, that at any other time would have been lost in 
the rumour of the city, could be plainly heard in the 
general silence. On the cornices of the monuments 
two or three ibises, one leg drawn up under their body, 
their long bill resting on their breast, seemed to be 
meditating deeply, and stood out against the calcined, 
whitish blue which formed the background. 

And yet all did not sleep. From the walls of 
a great palace whose entablature, adorned with palmet- 
toes, made a long, straight line against the flaming sky, 
there came a faint murmur of music. These bursts 
of harmony spread now and then through the diapha- 
nous shimmer of the atmosphere, and the eye might 
almost have followed their sonorous undulations. - 
Deadened by the thickness of the walls, the music 
was strangely sweet. It was a song voluptuously 
sad, wearily languorous, expressing bodily fatigue 
and the discouragement of passion. It was full of 
the eternal weariness of the luminous azure, of the 
indescribable helplessness of hot countries. As the 
slave passed by the wall, forgetting the master’s lash 
he would suspend his walk and stop to breathe in 
that song, impregnated. with all the secret homesick- 


ness of the soul, which made him think of his far 


7O 


che ote obs aha che he he he che ale tcl oleh eles hecho oe oleake 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


distant country, of his lost love, and of the insur- 
mountable obstacles of fate. Whence came that song, 
that sigh softly breathed in the silence of the city? 
What restless soul was awake when all around was 
asleep? 

The straight lines and the monumental appearance 
of the fagade of the palace, which looked upon the face 
of the square, were typical of the civil and religious 
architecture of Egypt. The dwelling could belong 
to a princely or a priestly family only. So much was 
readily seen from the materials of which it was 
built, the careful construction, and the richness of the 
ornamentation. 

In the centre of the facade rose a great building 
flanked by two wings surmounted by a roof in the 
form of a truncated triangle. A broad, deeply cut 
moulding of striking profile ended the wall, in which 
was visible no opening other than a door placed, not 
symmetrically in the centre, but in the corner of the 
building, no doubt to allow ample space for the stair- 
case within. A cornice in the same style as the 
entablature surmounted this single door. The build- 
ing projected from a wall on which rested like balco- 


nies two stories of galleries, resembling open porticoes, 


71 


betetetetreed 


& ob betbbbhbtbhh bb 
THE ROMANCE OF AV MORES 


we 


composed of pillars singularly fantastic in style. The 
bases of these pillars represented huge lotus-buds, from 
the capsule of which, as it opened its dentelated rim, 
sprang the shaft like a giant pistil, swelling below, 
more slender at the top, girdled under the capital 
by a collar of mouldings, and ending in a half-blown 
flower. Between the broad bays were small windows 
with their sashes in two parts filled with stained 
glass. Above ran a terraced roof flagged with huge 
slabs of stone. 

On the outer galleries great clay vases, rubbed 
inside with bitter almonds and closed with leaves, 
resting upon wooden pedestals, cooled the Nile water 
in the draughts of air. ‘Tables bore pyramids of fruits, 
sheaves of flowers and drinking-cups of different 
shapes; for the Egyptians love to eat in the open 
air, and take their meals, so to speak, upon the public 
street. On either side of the main building stretched 
others rising to the height of one story only, formed 
of a row of pillars engaged half-way up in a wall 
divided into panels in such a manner as to form 
around the house a shelter closed to the sun and the 
gaze of the outer world. All these buildings, en- 


livened by ornamental paintings, —for the capitals, 


72 


ae bea te be hee oe oe ect tebe aa ce oe ae at 


we ore rr aN To eye we wre 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


the shafts, the cornices, and the panels were coloured, 
— produced a delightful and superb effect. 

The door opened into a vast court surrounded by 
a quadrilateral portico supported by pillars, the capitals 
of which showed on each face a woman’s head, with 
the ears of a cow, long, narrow eyes, slightly flattened 
noses, and a broad smile; each wore a thick red 
cushion and supported a cap of hard sandstone. Under 
the portico opened the doors of the apartments, into 
which the light came softened by the shade of the 
galleries. In the centre of the court sparkled in the 
sunshine a pool of water, edged with a margin of 
Syéné granite. On the surface of the pond spread 
the heart-shaped leaves of the lotus, the rose and 
blue flowers of which were half closed as if overcome 
by the heat in spite of the water in which they were 
plunged. In the flower-beds around the pool were 
planted flowers arranged fanlike upon small hillocks, 
and along the narrow walks laid out between the beds 
walked carefully two tame storks, which from time 
to time snapped their bills and fluttered their wings 
as if about to take flight. At the angles of the court 
the twisted trunks of four huge perszas exhibited 


a mass of metallic green foliage. At the end a sort 


73 


ob oh oof oe oh oe ode oe abe ae oele eb cbe ce bee oe ooo a elo of 


tanh — ld — Salah Slliadt — Soallin — Soci 4 ore ore 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


of pylon broke the portico, and its large bay, framing 
in the blue air, showed at the end of a long avenue 
a summer kiosk of rich and elegant design. In the 
compartments traced on the right and on the left 
of the arbour by dwarf trees cut into the shape of 
cones, bloomed pomegranates, sycamores, tamarinds, 
periplocas, mimosas, and acacias, the flowers of which 
shone like coloured lights on the deep green of the 
foliage which overhung the walls. 

The faint, sweet music of which we have spoken 
proceeded from one of the rooms which opened into 
the interior portico. Although the sun shone full 
into the court, the ground of which blazed in the flood 
of light, a blue, cool shadow, transparently intense, 
filled the apartment, in which the eye, blinded by the 
dazzling reverberation, sought to distinguish shapes and 
at last made them out when it had become accustomed 
to the semi-light. A tender lilac tone overspread the 
walls of the room, around which ran a cornice painted 
in brilliant tones and enriched with small golden palm- 
branches. Architectural designs skilfully combined 
formed on the plain spaces panels which framed in 
ornaments, sheaves of flowers, birds, diapers of con- 


trasted colours, and scenes of domestic life. 


/4 


che oe ab ahah be abe che ob abe che coche che oe ch oe ce chee ce ae eto 


ene 


ee RIO MANC Eh OF } Ay MUM Mi 


At the back, near the wall, stood a strangely shaped 
bed, representing an ox wearing ostrich-feathers with a 
disc between its horns, broadening its back to receive 
the sleeper upon a thin red mattress, and stiffening 
by way of feet its black legs ending in green hoofs, 
while its curled-up tail was divided into two tufts. 
This quadruped bed, this piece of animal furniture, 
would have seemed strange in any other country than 
Egypt, where lions and jackals are also turned into 
beds by the fancy of the workmen. 

In front of the couch was placed a stool with four 
steps, which gave access to it: at the head, a pillow 
of Oriental alabaster, destined to support the neck 
without deranging the head-dress, was hollowed out 
in the shape of a half moon. In the centre a table 
of precious wood carved with exceeding care, stood 
upon a richly carved pedestal. A number of objects 
were placed upon it: a pot of lotus flowers, a mirror 
of polished bronze on an ivory stand,a vase of moss 
agate filled with antimony powder, a perfume spatula 
of sycamore wood in the shape of a woman bare 
to the waist stretching out as if she were swimming, 
and appearing to attempt to hold her box above 


the water. 


75 


che oe fe he oe oe oe abe be he obec be cdot abe cte ob boob oe ool 


ore eve CFO VTS CVE OTS OVE wre 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Near the table, on an armchair of gilded wood 
picked out with red, with blue feet, and with lions 
for arms, covered with a thick cushion of purple 
stuff starred with gold and crossed with black, the 
end of which fell over the back, was seated a young 
woman, or rather, a young girl of marvellous beauty, 
in a graceful attitude of nonchalance and melancholy. 

Her features, of ideal delicacy, were of the purest 
Egyptian type, and sculptors must have often thought 
of her as they carved the images of Isis and Hathor, 
even at the risk of breaking the rigorous _hieratic 
laws. Golden and rosy reflections coloured her warm 
pallor, in which showed her long black eyes, made 
to appear larger by lines of antimony, and full of a 
languorous, inexpressible sadness. ‘Those great dark 
eyes, with the eyebrows strongly marked and the 
eyelids coloured, gave a strange expression to the 
dainty, almost childish face. The half-parted lips, 
somewhat thick, of the colour of a pomegranate 
flower, showed a gleam of polished white and pre- 
served the involuntary and almost painful smile which 
imparts so sympathetic a charm to the Egyptian face. 
The nose, slightly depressed at the root, where the 


eyebrows melted one into another in a velvety shadow, 


76 


cheb abe ohooh oe abe che oe abe cde cbecbe of cte oe bral ob boa oof ob 
THE ROMANCE OF A. MUMMY 


rose in such pure lines, such delicate outlines, and 
with such well-cut nostrils that any woman or goddess 
would have been satisfied with it in spite of its slightly 
African profile. “The chin was rounded with marvel- 
lous elegance and shone like polished ivory. The 
cheeks, rather rounder than those of the beauties of 
other nations, added to the face an expression of 
extreme sweetness and gracefulness. 

This lovely girl wore for head-dress a sort of helmet 
formed of a Guinea fowl, the half-closed wings of 
which fell upon her temples, and the pretty, small 
head of which came down to the centre of her brow, 
while the tail) marked with white spots, spread out 
on the back of her neck. A clever combination of 
enamel imitated to perfection the plumage of the bird. 
Ostrich-feathers, planted in the helmet like an aigrette, 
completed this head-dress, which was reserved for young 
virgins, as the vulture, the symbol of maternity, is 
worn only by women. The hair of the young girl, 
of a brilliant black, plaited into tresses, hung in masses 
on either side of her smooth, round cheeks, and fell 
down to her shoulders. In the shadowy masses of 
the hair shone, like suns in a cloud, great discs of gold 


worn as earrings. From the head-dress hung grace- 


pe 


chee che abe ae che che che ho be cde ctrcde choco le cba cbe oboe of fools 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


fully down the back two long bands of stuff with 
fringed ends. A broad pectoral ornament, composed 
of several rows of enamels, gold and cornelian beads, 
and fishes and lizards of stamped gold, covered her 
breast from the lower part of the neck to the upper 
part of the bosom, which showed pink and white 
through the thin warp of the calasiris. The dress, 
of a large checkered pattern, was fastened under the 
bosom with a girdle with long ends, and ended in a 
broader border of transverse stripes edged with a fringe. 
Triple bracelets of lapis-lazuli beads, divided here and 
there by golden balls, encircled her slender wrists, 
delicate as those of a child; and her lovely, narrow 
feet with long, supple toes, were shod with sandals 
of white kid stamped with designs in gold, and rested 
on a cedar stool incrusted with red and green enamel. 
Near ‘Tahoser (for this was the name of the young 
Egyptian) knelt, one leg drawn back under the thigh 
and the other forming an obtuse angle, in the attitude 
which the painters love to reproduce on the walls of 
hypogea, a female harpist placed upon a sort of low 
pedestal, destined no doubt to increase the resonance 
of the instrument. A piece of stuff striped with 


coloured bands, the ends of which, thrown back, hung 


78 


were ere er ee eT 


We Fe we ore We eve eT 


Pare RO MAN CE OF tA VEU MM Y 


in fluted lappets, bound her hair and framed in her 
face, smiling mysteriously like that of a sphinx. A 
narrow dress, or rather sheath, of transparent gauze 
outlined closely the youthful contours of her elegant, 
slender form. Her dress, cut below the breast, left 
her shoulders, chest, and arms free in their chaste 
nudity. A support, fixed to the pedestal on which 
was placed the player, and traversed by a bolt in the 
shape of a key, formed a rest for the harp, the weight 
of which, but for that, would have borne wholly upon 
the shoulders of the young woman. ‘The harp, 
which ended in a sort of keyboard, rounded like a shell 
and covered with ornamental paintings, bore at its 
upper end a sculptured head of Hathor surmounted 
by an ostrich-plume. ‘The nine cords were stretched 
diagonally and quivered under the long, slender hands 
of the harpist, who often, in order to reach the lower 
notes, bent with a sinuous motion as if she were about 
to float on the waves of music and accompany the 
vanishing harmony. : 

Behind her stood another musician, who might have 
been thought nude but for the faint white haze which 
toned the bronze colour of her body. She played on 


a sort of guitar with an exceedingly long handle, the 


79 


cheb ecb be hed de cbechcobdedhcb cb ch chobch check 


=e ow me ee tae 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


three cords of which were coquettishly adorned at 
their extremity with coloured tufts. One of her arms, 
slender yet round, grasped the top of the handle with 
a sculptural pose, while the other upheld the instrument 
and touched the strings. 

A third young woman, whose enormous mass of 
hair made her look all the more slender, beat time 
upon a tympanum formed of a wooden frame slightly 
curved inward, on which was stretched an onager- 
skin. 

The harpist sang a plaintive melody, accompanied 
in unison, inexpressibly sad. The words breathed 
vague aspirations, vague regrets, a hymn of love to 
the unknown, and timid plaints of the rigour of the 
gods and the cruelty of fate. “Tahoser, leaning upon 
one of the lions of her armchair, her hand under her 
cheek and her finger curved against her temple, 
listened with inattention more apparent than real, to 
the song of the musician. At times a sigh made her 
breast heave and raised the enamels of her necklace. 
Sometimes a moist light caused by a growing tear 
shone in her eye between the lines of antimony, and 
her tiny teeth bit her lower lip as if she were fighting 


her own emotion. 


80 


che che ake be ob che oho oh a decode hecho ch ode ofa alec otal 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


“‘Satou,” she said, clapping her delicate hands 
together to silence the musician, who at once deadened 
with her palm the vibrations of the harp, “ your song 
enervates me, makes me languid, and would make me 
giddy like overpowerful perfumes. The strings of 
your harp seem to be twisted with the vibrations of 
my heart and sound painfully within my breast. You 
make me almost ashamed, for it is my soul that 
mourns in your music. Who can have told you my 
secrets ? ”’ 

«“ Mistress,” replied the harpist, “the poet and the 
musician know everything; the gods reveal hidden 
things to them; they express in their rhythm what 
the thought scarcely conceives and what the tongue 
confusedly stammers. But if my song saddens you, 
I can, by changing its mode, bring brighter ideas to 
your mind.” And Satou struck the cords of her harp 
with joyous energy, and with a quick measure which 
the tympanum marked with more rapid strokes. 

After this prelude she began a song praising the 
charms of wine, the intoxication of perfumes, and the 
delight of the dance. Some of the women, who, seated 
upon folding-stools formed of the necks of blue swans, 


whose yellow bills clasped the frame of the seat, or 


6 Si 


oh che eo oe abe ae oe do cde oe rade oe cece abc ce cece ole aoc 


wre 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


kneeling upon scarlet cushions filled with the down of 
thistles, had assumed under the influence of Satou’s 
music poses of utter languor, shivered; their nostrils 
swelled; they breathed in the magic rhythm; they 
rose to their feet, and, moved by an irresistible impulse, 
began to dance. A _head-dress, in the shape of a 
helmet cut out around the ear, enclosed their hair, 
some locks of which escaped and fell upon their brown 
cheeks, which the ardour of the dance soon turned 
rosy. Broad golden circles beat upon their necks, 
and through their long gauze shifts, embroidered at 
the top with pearls, showed their golden bronze bodies 
which moved with the ease of an adder. ‘They 
twisted, turned, swayed their hips, bound with a nar- 
row black girdle, threw themselves back, bowed down, 
inclined their heads to right and left as if they found 
a secret voluptuousness in touching their polished chins 
with their cold, bare shoulders, swelled out their breasts 
like doves, knelt and rose, pressed their hands to their 
bosom or voluptuously outspread their arms, which 
seemed to flutter as the wings of Iris or Nephthys, 
dragged their limbs, bent the knee, displayed their 
swift feet with little staccato movements, and followed 


every undulation of the music. “The maids, standing 


82 


sas abs obs obs obs abe obs obs abe abs abo ete obs che obs obs abe abe obs alle abe obs als 


= jie oe ene en in Fi —— oe Oe = = 4 — 


bitty ROMANGE -OFY Ai/MU MIM Y¥ 


against the wall to leave free space for the evolutions 
of the dancers, marked the rhythm by snapping their 
fingers or clapping their hands together. Some of 
these maids, absolutely nude, had no other raiment 
than a bracelet of enamelled ware; others wore a 
narrow cloth held by straps, and a few sprays of 
flowers twisted in their hair. It was a strange and 
graceful sight. The buds and the flowers, gently 
moving, shed their perfume through the hall, and 
these young women, thus wreathed, might have 
suggested fortunate comparisons to poets. 

But Satou had overestimated the power of her art. 
The joyous rhythm seemed to increase Tahoser’s 
melancholy. A tear rolled down her fair cheek like a 
drop of Nile water on a nympheea, and hiding her face 
in the breast of her favourite maid, who leaned upon 
the armchair of her mistress, she uttered with a sob, 
dovelike in its sadness, “Oh, my dear Nofré, ] am 


very sad and very unhappy!” 


ES ES LSE SET eet 


cho oe bea oh ob oe ot le dorado oe obec cde echo obe be afro 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
shoe oe feo abe oe oe oe oe fe cdecde eo cece eee che soot 


wwe ere ove oe Pe FO FO ove ere 


II 


I | OFRE, anticipating some confidence, made 
a sign, and the harpist, the two musicians, 
the dancers, and the maids silently with- 

drew one by one, like the figures painted on frescoes. 

When the last had gone, the favourite said to her mis- 

tress in a petting, sympathetic tone, like a young 

mother soothing her child’s tender grief,— 

“< What is the matter, dear mistress, that you are sad 
and unhappy? Are you not young, so fair that the 
loveliest envy you, and free to do what you please? 
And did not your father, the high-priest Petamounoph, 
whose mummy rests concealed within a rich tomb, — 
did he not leave you great wealth to do with as you 
please? Your palace is splendid, your gardens vast and 
watered by transparent streams, your coffers of enam- 
elled ware and sycamore wood are filled with necklaces, 
pectorals, neck-plates, anklets, finely wrought seal-rings. 
Your gowns, your calasiris, your head-dresses are greater 
in number than the days of the year. Hopi, the father 
of waters, regularly covers with his fertilising mud your 


domains, which a vulture flying at top speed could 


84 


shee cheb abe abe be be oe abe dr cbecke ecb cbe ole cb oo obr ce ef do oe 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


scarce traverse from sunrise to sunrise. And yet your 
heart, instead of opening joyously like a lotus bud in 
the month of Hathor or of Choeak, closes and con- 
tracts painfully.” 

Tahoser answered Nofré : — 

“Yes, indeed, the gods of the higher zones have 
treated me favourably. But what matter one’s pos- 
sessions if one lacks the one thing desired? An 
unsatisfied wish makes the rich as poor, in his gilded, 
brightly painted palace, in the midst of his heaps of 
grain, of perfumes and precious things, as the most 
wretched workman of the Memnonia, who sops up 
with sawdust the blood of the bodies, or the semi-nude 
negro driving on the Nile his frail papyrus-boat under 
the burning midday sun.” 

Nofré smiled, and said with a look of imperceptible 
raillery, — 

“Ts it possible, O mistress, that a single one of your 
fancies has not been fulfilled at once? If you want a 
jewel, you give the workman an ingot of pure gold, 
cornelians, lapis-lazuli, agates, and hematite, and he 
carries out the wished-for design. It is the same way 
with gowns, cars, perfumes, flowers, and musical instru- 


ments. From Philz to Heliopolis your slaves seek 


85 


alle be abe ols obs abe aby ole ol obs alls oflrcbe ole ole aby abe ole alle che obs ob alos 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
out for you what is most beautiful and most rare; and 
if Egypt does not hold what you want, caravans bring 
it to you from the ends of the world.” 

The lovely ‘Tahoser shook her pretty head and 
seemed annoyed at her confidante’s lack of intelligence. 


bP 


‘¢ Forgive me, mistress,” said Nofré, changing her 
tone as she understood that she had made a mistake. 
‘“¢ [ had forgotten that it will soon be four months since 
the Pharaoh left on his expedition to Upper Ethiopia, 
and that the handsome oéris (general), who never 
passed under the terrace without looking up and slow- 
ing his steps, accompanies His Majesty. How well 
he looked in his uniform, how handsome, young, and 
bold! ” 

Tahoser’s rosy lips half parted, as if she were about 
to speak, but a faint, rosy flush spread over her cheeks, 
she bowed her head, and the words ready to issue forth 
did not unfold their sonorous wings. 

The maid thought she had guessed right, and con- 
tinued, — 

‘© In that case, mistress, your grief will soon end, 
for this morning a breathless runner arrived, announc- 
ing the triumphal return of the king before sundown. 


Have you not already heard innumerable rumours 


86 


ch bebe ae oe ah oboe he obo cbr ele cheba abe ooo che be obese 


ore ee oFe 


BEE ROMANGE “OR” Ai NEO MIM Y 


buzzing confusedly over the city, which is awakening 
from its midday torpor? List! The wheels of the 
cars sound upon the stone slabs of the streets, and 
already the people are hurrying in compact bodies to 
the river bank, to cross it and reach the parade ground. 
Throw off your languor and come also to see that 
wondrous spectacle. When one is sad, one ought to 
mingle with the crowd, for solitude feeds sombre 
thoughts. From his chariot Ahmosis will smile gra- 
ciously upon you, and you will return happier to your 
palace.” 

“ Ahmosis loves me, but I do not love him,” 
answered ‘Tahoser. 

“You speak as a maid,” replied Nofré, who was — 
very much smitten with the handsome officer, and who 
thought that the disdainful nonchalance of ‘Tahoser 
was assumed. In point of fact, Ahmosis was a very 
handsome fellow. His profile resembled that of the 
images of the gods carved by the most skilful sculptors. 
His proud, regular features equalled in beauty those of 
a woman; his slightly aquiline nose, his brilliant black 
eyes lengthened with antimony, his polished cheeks, 
smooth as Oriental alabaster, his well-shaped lips, his 


tall, handsome figure, his broad chest, his narrow hips, 


87 


tebbebettrttbttttbbhbhd dh tht 
THE ROMANCE (OF AL NEG 


his strong arms on which, however, no muscle stood 
out in coarse relief, were all that were needed to se- 
duce the most difficult to please; but Tahoser did not 
love him, whatever Nofre might think. Another 
idea, which she refrained from expressing, for she did 
not believe Nofré capable of understanding her, helped 
the young girl to make up her mind. She threw 
off her languor, and rose from her armchair with a 
vivacity quite unexpected after the broken-down atti- 
tude she had preserved during the singing and the 
dancing. } 

Nofré, kneeling before her, fastened on her feet 
sandals with turned-up ends, cast scented powder on 
her hair, drew from a box several bracelets in the shape 
of serpents, and a few rings with sacred scarabzi for 
gems, put on her cheeks a green powder which imme- 
diately turned rose-colour as it touched the skin, pol- 
ished her nails with a cosmetic, and adjusted the 
somewhat rumpled folds of her calasiris like a zealous 
maid who means that her mistress shall show to the 
greatest advantage. Then she called two or three ser- 
vants, and ordered them to make ready the boat and 
transport to the other side of the river the chariot 


and oxen. 


88 


cso de oe hs chee hea cece ecto che teche cece oe bec 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


The palace, or if this name seems too pompous, the 
dwelling of “‘Tahoser, rose close to the Nile, from 
which it was separated by gardens only. Petamou- 
noph’s daughter, her hand resting on Nofré’s shoulder, 
and preceded by her servants, walked down to the 
water-gate through the arbour, the broad leaves of 
which, softening the rays of the sun, flecked with light 
shadows her lovely face. She soon reached the wide 
brick quay, on which swarmed a mighty multitude, 
awaiting the departure or return of the boats. 

The vast city held now only the sick, the invalids, 
old people unable to move, and the slaves left in charge 
of the houses. ‘Through the streets, the squares, the 
dromos (temple avenues), down the sphinx avenues, 
through the pylons, along the quays, flowed streams of 
human beings all bound for the Nile. ‘The multitude 
exhibited the strangest variety. “he Egyptians were 
there in largest numbers, and were recognisable by their 
clean profile, their tall, slender figures, their fine linen 
robes or their carefully pleated calasiris. Some, their 
heads enveloped in striped green or blue cloth, with 
narrow drawers closely fitting to their loins, showed to 
the belt their bare torsos the colour of baked clay. 


Against this mass of natives stood out divers members 


89 


shake cb cb oe obs abe ce che che abe chocbe bead che cb cb cele 


! cb eee 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
of exotic races: negroes from the Upper Nile, as black 
as basalt gods, their arms bound round with broad 
ivory rings, their ears adorned with barbaric ornaments ; 
bronzed Ethiopians, fierce-eyed, uneasy, and restless in 
the midst of this civilisation, like wild beasts in the 
glare of day; Asiatics with their pale-yellow com- 
plexion and their blue eyes, their beard curled in spirals, 
wearing a tiara fastened by a band, and draped in heay- 
ily embroidered, fringed robes; Pelasgi, dressed in wild 
beasts’ skins fastened on the shoulder, showing their 
curiously tattooed legs and arms, wearing feathers in 
their hair, with two long love-locks hanging down. 
Through the multitude gravely marched shaven-headed 
priests with a panther’s-skin twisted around their body 
in such a way that the head of the animal formed a 
sort of belt-buckle, byblos shoes on their feet, in their 
hand a tall acacia-stick on which were engraved hiero- 
elyphic characters ; soldiers, their silver-studded daggers 
by their side, their bucklers on their backs, their bronze 
axes in their hands; distinguished personages, their 
breasts adorned with neck-plates of honour, to whom 
the slaves bowed low, bringing their hands close to the 
ground; and sliding along the walls with humble and 


sad mien, poor, half-nude women travelling along 


go 


To of ere CTs CFO eyo Cte wie CFE VED VIO Re eon 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


shoot ob oe obo be echo che obec cbecke focde oe abe abe feeb be eee 


bowed under the weight of their children suspended 
from their neck in rags of stuff or baskets of espar- 
tero; while handsome girls, accompanied by three or 
four maids, passed proudly with their long, trans- 
parent dresses knotted under their breasts with long, 
floating scarfs, sparkling with enamels, pearls, and gold, 
and giving out a fragrance of flowers and aromatic 
essences. 

Among the foot-passengers went litters borne by 
Ethiopians running rapidly and rhythmically; light 
carts drawn by spirited horses with plumed headgear ; 
ox chariots moving slowly along and bearing a whole 
family. Scarcely did the crowd, careless of being run 
over, draw aside to make room, and often the drivers 
were forced to strike with their whips those who were 
slow or obstinate in moving away. 

The greatest animation reigned on the river, which, 
notwithstanding its breadth, was so covered with boats 
of all kinds that the water was invisible along the 
whole stretch of the city ; all manner of craft, from the 
bark with raised poop and prow and richly painted and 
gilded cabin to the light papyrus skiff, — everything 
had been called into use. Even the boats used to ferry 


cattle and to carry freight, and the reed rafts kept up 


gli 


ghbbhthbb ttt ee tht hth hhh tke 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


by skins, which generally carried loads of clay vessels, 
had not been disdained. “The waters of the Nile, 
beaten, lashed, and cut by oars, sweeps, and rudders, 
foamed like the sea, and formed many an eddy that 
broke the force of the current. 

The build of the boats was as varied as it was pic- 
turesque. Some were finished off at each end with a 
great lotus flower curving inwards, the stem adorned 
with fluttering flags; others were forked at the poop 
which rose to a point; others again were crescent- 
shaped, with horns at either end; others bore a sort of 
a castle or platform on which stood the pilots ; still 
others were composed of three strips of bark bound | 
with cords, and were driven by a paddle. ‘The boats 
for the transport of animals and chariots were moored 
side by side, supporting a platform on which rested a 
floating bridge to facilitate embarking and disembark- 
ing. The number of these was very great. ‘The 
horses, terrified, neighed and stamped with their sound- 
ing hoofs; the oxen turned restlessly towards the shore 
their shining noses whence hung filaments of saliva, 
but grew calmer under the caresses of their drivers. 
The boatswains marked time for the rowers by striking 


together the palms of their hands; the pilots, perched 


g2 


the robe afe abe be to be he aby crabecdeofoabe cde oleae ooo of soot 


ove 


Tee ROMANCE OF AM MOU MM Y 


on the poop or walking about on the raised cabins, 
shouted their orders, indicating the manoeuvres neces- 
sary to make way through the moving labyrinth of 
vessels. Sometimes, in spite of all precautions, boats 
collided, and crews exchanged insults or struck at each 
other with their oars. “These countless crafts, most 
of them painted white and adorned with ornaments of 
green, blue, or red, laden with men and women dressed 
in many-coloured costumes, caused the Nile to disap- 
pear entirely over an extent of many miles, and pre- 
sented under the brilliant Egyptian sun a_ spectacle 
dazzling in its changefulness. The water, agitated in 
every direction, surged, sparkled, and gleamed like 
quicksilver, and resembled a sun shattered into millions 
of pieces. 

Tahoser entered her barge, which was decorated 
with wondrous richness. In the centre stood a cabin, 
its entablature surmounted with a row of uraus-snakes, 
the angles squared to the shape of pillars, and the walls 
adorned with designs. A binnacle with pointed roof 
stood on the poop, and was matched at the other 
end by a sort of altar enriched with paintings. The 
rudder consisted of two huge sweeps, ending in 


heads of Hathor, that were fastened with long 


YS 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


strips of stuff and worked upon hollow posts. On 
the mast shivered — for the east wind had just risen — 
an oblong sail fastened to two yards, the rich stuff 
of which was embroidered and painted with loz- 
enges, chevrons, birds, and chimerical animals in 
brilliant colours; from the lower yard hung a fringe 
of great tufts. 

The moorings cast off and the sail braced to the 
wind, the vessel left the bank, sheering with its sharp 
prow between the innumerable boats, the oars of which 
became entangled and moved about like the legs of a 
scarabzus thrown over on its back. It sailed on care- 
lessly amidst a stream of insults and shouts. Its 
greater power enabled it to disdain collisions which 
would have run down frailer vessels. Besides, Taho- 
ser’s crew were so skilful that their vessel seemed 
endowed with life, so swiftly did it obey the rudder and 
avoid in the nick of time serious obstacles. Soon it 
had left behind the heavily laden boats with their 
cabins filled with passengers inside, and on the roof 
three or four rows of men, women, and children 
crouching in the attitude so dear to the Egyptian 
people. ‘These individuals, so kneeling, might have 


been mistaken for the assistant judges of Osiris, had 


EE 


abe ob obs obs ober abe abe obs abe ob ob cbncle aba ols oleae ole ofr oboe ale ede ol 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


not their faces, instead of bearing the expression of med- 
itation suited to funeral councillors, expressed the most 
unmistakable delight. The fact was that the Pharaoh 
was returning victorious, bringing vast booty with him. 
Thebes was given up to joy, and its whole population 
was proceeding to welcome the favourite of Ammon 
Ra, Lord of the Diadem, the Emperor of the Pure Re- 
gion, the mighty Aroéris, the Sun God and the Subduer 
of Nations. 

Tahoser’s barge soon reached the opposite bank. 
The boat bearing her car came alongside almost at the 
same moment. ‘The oxen ascended the flying bridge, 
and in a few minutes were yoked by the alert servants 
who had been landed with them. | 

The oxen were white spotted with black, and bore 
on their heads a sort of tiara which partly covered the 
yoke; the latter was fastened by broad leather straps, 
one of which passed around the neck of the oxen, and 
the other, fastened to the first, passed under their belly. 
Their high withers, their broad dewlaps, their clean 
limbs, their small hoofs, shining like agate, their tails 
with the tuft carefully combed, showed that they were 
thorough-bred and that hard field-work had never de- 
formed them. They exhibited the majestic placidity 


95 


KEAELKE ALAS eA eetetttetese 


we ere AX 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


of Apis, the sacred bull, when it receives homage and 
offerings. 

The chariot, extremely light, could hold two or three 
persons standing. The semicircular body, covered 
with ornaments and gilding arranged in graceful curved 
lines, was supported by a sort of diagonal stay, which 
rose somewhat beyond the upper edge and to which 
the traveller clung with his hand when the road was 
rough or the speed of the oxen rapid. On the axle, 
placed at the back of the body in order to diminish the 
jolting, were two six-spoked wheels held by keyed 
bolts. On top of a staff planted at the back of 
the vehicle spread a parasol in the shape of palm 
leaves. 

Nofré, bending over the edge of the chariot, held 
the reins of the oxen, bridled like horses, and drove the 
car in the Egyptian fashion, while Tahoser, motion- 
less by her side, leaned a hand, studded with rings 
from the little finger to the thumb, on the gilded 
moulding of the shell. These two lovely maidens, 
the one brilliant with enamels and precious stones, the 
other scarcely veiled in a transparent tunic of gauze, 
formed a charming group on the brilliantly painted 


car. Eight or ten men-servants, dressed in tunics 


g6 


sole obese oles feo becbecbecbecbecbsebeele obec of clocks 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


with transverse stripes, the folds of which were massed 
in front, accompanied the equipage, keeping step with 
the oxen. 

On this side of the river the crowd was not less 
great. ‘Ihe inhabitants of the Memnonia quarters and 
of the neighbouring villages were arriving in their 
turn, and every moment the boats, landing their pas- 
sengers on the brick quay wall, brought additional 
sight-seers to swell the multitude. The wheels of 
innumerable chariots, all driving towards the parade 
ground, flashed like suns in the golden dust which 
they raised. “Thebes at that moment must have been 
as deserted as if a conqueror had carried away its people 
into captivity. 

‘The frame, too, was worthy of the picture. In the 
midst of green fields whence rose the aigrettes of the 
dom palms, showed in bright colours houses of pleas- 
aunce, palaces, and summer homes surrounded by syca- 
mores and mimosas. Pools of water sparkled in the 
sunshine, the festoons of vines climbed on the arched 
arbours, and in the background stood out the gigantic 
pylons of the palace of Rameses Meiamoun, with its 
huge pylons, its enormous walls, its gilded and painted 


flagstaffs from which the colours blew out in the wind; 


7 97 


abeobe oe obey abe oh oe oe oe fe cdecde aoe abe ote fossa abe 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


and further to the north the two colossi sitting in pos- 
tures of eternal immobility, mountains of granite in 
human shape, before the entrance to the Amenophium, 
showed through a bluish haze, half masking the still 
more distant Rhamesseium, and beyond it the tomb of 
the high-priest, but allowing the palace of Menephta 
to be seen at one of its angles. , 

Nearer the Lybian chain, from the Memnonian 
quarter inhabited by the undertakers, dissectors, and 
embalmers, went up into the blue air the red smoke of 
the natron boilers, for the work of death never ceased ; 
in vain did life spread tumultuously around, the band- 
ages were being prepared, the cases moulded, the 
coffins carved with hieroglyphs, and some cold body 
was stretched out upon the funeral bed, with feet of 
lion or jackal, waiting to have its toilet made for 
eternity. 

On the horizon, but, owing to the transparency of 
the air, seeming to be much nearer, the Libyan moun- 
tains showed against the clear sky their limestone 
crests and their barren slopes hollowed out into 
hypogea and passages. 

Looking towards the other bank the prospect was no 


less wondrous. Against the vaporous background of 


98 


dofeob the de ch de ce ch ch bchchebecteobel ch cb bebe ob fool 


CHO VVe WO VTS VTE CVE CTS eFu OFO jie wre wir 


THE ROMANCE. OF A MUMMY 


the Arabian chain, the gigantic pile of the Northern 
Palace, which distance itself could scarce diminish, 
reared above the flat-roofed dwellings its mountains 
of granite, its forest of giant pillars, rose-coloured 
in the rays of the sunshine. In front of the palace 
stretched a vast esplanade reaching down to the 
river by a staircase placed at the angles; in the centre 
an avenue of ram-headed sphinxes perpendicular to 
the Nile, led to a huge pylon, in front of which 
stood two colossal statues and a pair of obelisks, 
the pyramidions of which, rising above the cornice, 
showed their flesh-coloured points against the uniform 
blue of the sky. Beyond and above the boundary 
wall rose the side facade of the temple of Ammon. 
More to the right were the temples of Khons and 
Oph. A giant pylon, seen in profile and facing 
to the south, and two obelisks sixty cubits in height, 
marked the beginning of that marvellous avenue of 
two thousand sphinxes with lions’ bodies and rams’ 
heads, which reached from the Northern Palace to 
the Southern Palace. On the pedestals could be 
seen swelling the huge quarters of the first row of 
these monsters, that turned their backs to the Nile. 


Farther still, there showed faintly in the rosy light 


vied 


ch he oe oh oh ae he abe che of ote trade cba ele cle obec bebe abe bee 


ee CFS oe VE oTe Ve GO oO 


THE ROMANCE VOF AVM ie 


cornices on which the mystic globe outspread its 
vast wings, heads of placid-faced colossi, corners of 
mighty buildings, needles of granite, terraces rising 
above terraces, columns of palm trees growing like 
tufts of grass amid these vast constructions; and the 
Palace of the South uprose, with high painted walls, 
flag-adorned staffs, sloping doors, obelisks, and herds 
of sphinxes. Beyond, as far as the eye could reach, 
Oph stretched out with its palaces, its priests’ col- 
leges, its houses, and in the dimmest distance the 
crests of its walls and the summits of its gates showed 
as faint blue lines. 

Tahoser gazed upon the prospect which was so 
familiar to her, but her glance expressed no admira- 
tion; however, as she passed a house almost buried 
amid luxuriant vegetation, she lost her apathy, and 
seemed to seek on the terraces and on the outer 
gallery some well-known form. 

A handsome young man, carelessly leaning against 
one of the slender pillars of the building, appeared to 
be watching the crowd, but his dark eyes, with their 
dreamy look, did not rest on the chariot which bore 
Tahoser and Nofré. 

Meanwhile the hand of the daughter of Petamou- 


I0O 


shecke ead oe oh oe be che che check choc cf ee ocak abe doo 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


noph clung nervously to the edge of the car; her cheeks 
turned pale under the light touch of rouge which 
Nofré had put on, and as if she felt herself fainting, 
she breathed in rapidly and often the scent of her 
nosegay of lotus. 


PQE 


she cbe abe oe oe be ee che che ce deeb doco doce cleo ce obese 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


N spite of her usual perspicacity, Nofré had 
| not noticed the effect produced on her mistress 

by the sight of the careless stranger. She had 
observed neither her pallor, followed by a deep 
blush, nor the brighter gleam of her glance nor 
the rustling of the enamels and pearls of her necklace 
rising and falling with her bosom. It is true that 
her whole attention was given to the management 
of the equipage, which presented a good deal of 
difficulty in view of the ever denser masses of sight- 
seers crowding to be present at the triumphal entrance 
of the Pharaoh. 

At last the car reached the parade ground, a vast en- 
closure carefully levelled for military displays. Great 
banks, which must have cost thirty enslaved nations 
the labour of years, formed a bold framework for the 
immense parallelogram. Sloping revetment walls of 
unbaked bricks covered the banks, and the crests were 
lined many files deep by hundreds of thousands of 
Egyptians, whose white or brightly striped costumes 


fluttered in the sun with that constant motion character- 


102 


cb obr abe obe oe ob abe abe ofa abe coade obec aol cb foo ce fe of ob 
THES ROMANCE.OF Ai MUMMY 


istic of a multitude even when it seems to be motion- 
less. Behind this ring of spectators the cars, chariots, 
and litters watched by the coachmen, drivers, and 
slaves, seemed to be the camp of a migrating nation, 
so great was their number; for Thebes, the wonder of 
the ancient world, reckoned more inhabitants than do 
certain kingdoms. ‘The fine, smooth sand of the 
vast arena lined with a million people, sparkled under 
the light, falling from a sky as blue as the enamel of 
the Osiris statuettes. 

On the southern side of the parade ground the revet- 
ment wall was cut through by a road which ran 
towards Upper Egypt along the foot of the Libyan 
chain. At the opposite corner the revetment was 
again cut so that the road was prolonged to the palace 
of Rameses Meiamoun through the thick brick walls. 
Petamounoph’s daughter and Nofré, for whom the 
servants had made room, stood on this corner on the 
top of the wall, so that they could see the whole pro- 
cession pass at their feet. 

A mighty rumour, low, deep, and powerful, like that 
of an advancing ocean, was heard in the distance and 
drowned the innumerable noises arising from the 


crowd, as the roar of a lion silences the yelping of 


103 
BN i a naa IRE rae! 


cbr ate abe obs be abe abe ode abe abe abe cdecde clr ebe abe br ele cbr ele abe ole be fe 


we we sie CHO oie WHO cise oho VIO OFS VIS CHE Vie GIS ele eFe eye oie wie 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


a tribe of jackals. Soon the separate sounds of the 
instruments were heard amidst the thunderous noise 
produced by the driving of war chariots and the 
rhythmic marching of the soldiers. A sort of reddish 
mist like that raised by the desert wind filled the sky 
in that direction, and yet there was no breeze, — 
not a breath of air, and the most delicate branches 
of the palms were as motionless as if they had been 
carved on granite capitals. Not a hair moved on 
the wet temples of the women, and the fluted 
lappets of their head-dresses fell limp behind their 
backs. The dusty. mist was produced by the army 
on the march, and hovered above it like a dun- 
coloured cloud. 

The roar increased, the cloud of dust opened, and 
the first files of musicians debouched into the vast 
arena, to the intense delight of the multitude, which, 
notwithstanding its respect for the majesty of the 
Pharaoh, was beginning to weary of waiting under a 
sunshine which would have melted any but Egyptian 
skulls. 

The advance guard of musicians stopped for a few 
moments. Delegations of priests and deputations of 


the chief inhabitants of Thebes crossed the parade 


104 


shale cbedheoke oh deck ch dec cake dectecbe bec cfe obese eel 


ore eT 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


ground to meet the Pharaoh, and drew up in double 
line in attitudes of the deepest respect so as to leave 
a free passage for the procession. 

The music, which alone might have formed a small 
army, was composed of drums, tambourines, trumpets, 
and sistra. [he first squad passed, blowing a sound- 
ing blare of triumph through its short copper bugles 
that shone like gold. Every one of these musicians 
carried a second bugle under his arm, as if the instru- 
ment were likely to be worn out before the man. 
‘The costume of the trumpeters consisted of a short 
tunic bound by a sash the broad ends of which fell 
in front. A narrow band upholding two ostrich-plumes 
fastened their thick hair. The plumes thus placed 
looked like the antennz of a scarabeus, and im- 
parted to those who wore them a quaint, insect-like | 
appearance. 

The drummers, clad in a mere pleated kilt and bare 
to the belt, struck with sycamore sticks the wild-ass- 
skin stretched over their kettledrums suspended from 
a leather baldric, keeping the time which the drum 
major marked by clapping his hands as he frequently 
turned towards them. Next to the drummers came 


the sistrum players, who shook their instruments with 


105 


LEELA AE eS LAEA ALAS sehtke 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


sharp, quick movements, and at regular intervals made 
the metal rings sound upon the four bronze bars. 
The tambourine players carried transversely before 
them their oblong instrument fastened by a_ scarf 
passed behind their neck, and struck with both fists 
the skin stretched on either end. 

Each band numbered not less than two hundred 
men, but the storm of sound produced by the bugles, 
drums, sistra, and tambourines, which would have 
been deafening within the palace, was in no wise too 
loud or too tremendous under the vast cupola of the 
heavens, in the centre of that immense space, amid 
buzzing multitudes, at the head of an army which 
baffles enumeration and which was advancing with 
the roar of great waters. Besides, were eight hundred 
musicians too many to precede the Pharaoh, beloved 
of Ammon Ra, represented by colossi of basalt and 
granite sixty cubits high, whose name was written 
on the cartouches of imperishable monuments, and 
whose story was carved and painted upon the walls. 
of the hypostyle halls, on the sides of pillars, in endless 
bassi-relievi and innumerable frescoes? Was it too 
much indeed for a king who dragged a hundred con- 


quered nations by their hair, and from the height of 


106 


Lobe 
eye e7S e7e e799 oe eTE eTE 


BE ROMANCE OF Ai MUMMY 


his throne ruled the nations with his whip? For 
the living Sun that flamed on dazzled eyes? For 
one who, save that he did not possess eternal life, 
was a god? 

Behind the music came the captive barbarians, 
strange to look at, with bestial faces, black skins, 
woolly hair, as much like monkeys as men, and dressed 
in the costume of their country, —a skirt just above 
the hips held by a single brace, embroidered with orna- 
ments in divers colours. An ingenious cruelty had 
directed the binding together of the prisoners. Some 
were bound by the elbows behind the back; others 
by their hands raised above their head, in the most 
uncomfortable position; others again had their wrists 
caught in stocks; others with their neck in an iron 
collar or held by a rope which fastened a whole file of 
them, with a loop for each victim. It seemed as if 
the object sought had been to thwart as much as pos- 
sible natural attitudes in the fettering of these poor 
wretches, who marched before their conqueror awk- 
wardly and with difficulty, rolling their big eyes and 
twisting and writhing in pain. Guards marched at 
their side, striking them with sticks to make them 


keep time. 


107 


THE: ROMANCE OF aN MUMMY 


Next came, bowed with shame, exposed in their 
wretched, deformed nudity, dark-complexioned women, 
with long hanging tresses, carrying their children in 
a piece of stuff fastened around their brow, —a vile 
herd intended for the meanest uses. Others, young, 
handsome and fairer, their arms adorned with broad 
bracelets of ivory, their ears pulled down by great 
~metal discs, wrapped themselves in long, wide-sleeved 
tunics embroidered around the neck and falling in fine, 
close folds down to their ankles, on which rattled 
anklets, — poor girls, snatched from their country, 
their parents, their lovers perhaps; yet they smiled 
through their tears, for the power of beauty is bound- 
less, strangeness gives birth to caprice, and perhaps 
the royal favour awaited some of these barbaric cap- 
tives in the secret depths of the harem. Soldiers 
accompanied them and kept the multitude from crowd- 
ing upon them. 

The standard-bearers followed, bearing on high the 
golden staff of their ensigns, which represented mystic 
baris, sacred hawks, heads of Hathor surmounted by 
ostrich-plumes, winged ibex, cartouches bearing the 
king’s name, crocodiles, and other warlike or religious 


symbols. Long white streamers spotted with black 


108 


cho fea fe abso oe he abe ahead ce ob ob ob ob ob of eels 


Wo WHO eve ee ere 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


spots were tied to these standards, and fluttered grace- 
fully on the march. 

At the sight of the standards which announced the 
arrival of the Pharaoh, the deputations of priests and 
notables stretched out their hands in supplication 
‘towards him, or let them fall on their knees, the 
palms turned up. Some even prostrated themselves, 
their knees close to the body, their faces in the dust, 
in an attitude of absolute submission and deep adora- 
tion, while the spectators waved great palm-branches. 

A herald or reader, holding in his hand a roll 
covered with hieroglyphic signs, marched along be- 
tween the standard-bearers and the incense-burners, 
who preceded the king’s litter. He shouted, in a 
loud voice as sonorous as a brazen trumpet, the 
victories of the Pharaoh; he related the fortunes of 
the Pharaoh’s battles, announced the number of cap- 
tives and of war chariots taken from the enemy, the 
amount of the booty, the measures of gold-dust, the 
elephants’ tusks, the ostrich-plumes, the quantities 
of balsamic gum, the giraffes, lions, panthers, and 
other rare animals. He named the barbaric chiefs 
who had been slain by the javelins of His Majesty 
the Almighty Aroéris, favourite of the gods. At each 


109g 


ech eb oh bh of be ob oft cre ore abn obs ole obs obn obs obs ote obs ole of ob oln 


wo ee CFO ee eTe eve 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


proclamation the people uttered a mighty shout, and 
from the top of the revetment banks threw down 
upon the conqueror’s pathway long, green palm- 
branches. 

At last the Pharaoh appeared. Priests, who turned 
and faced him at regular intervals, swung their cen- 
sers, after having cast incense upon the coals lighted 
in a little bronze cup which was held by a hand at the 
end of a sort of sceptre topped by a sacred animal’s 
head. ‘They marched respectfully backwards while 
the scented blue smoke rose to the nostrils of the 
triumphant sovereign, apparently as indifferent to these 
honours as if he were a god of bronze or basalt. 

Twelve oéris, or military chiefs, their heads covered 
with a light helmet surmounted by an ostrich-plume, 
bare to the belt, their loins wrapped in a loin cloth 
of stiff folds, wearing their buckler hanging from 
their belt, supported a sort of dais on which rested 
the throne of the Pharaoh. ‘This was a chair with 
feet and arms formed of lions, with a high back pro- 
vided with a cushion that fell over it, and adorned on 
its sides with a network of rose and blue flowers. 
The feet, the arms, and the edges of the throne were 


gilded, while brilliant colours filled the places left 


IIo 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


empty. On either side of the litter four fan-bearers 
waved huge feather fans, semicircular in form, carried 
at the end of long, gilded handles. Two priests bore 
a huge cornucopia richly ornamented, whence fell 
quantities of giant lotus-flowers. 

The Pharaoh wore a helmet shaped like a mitre 
and cut out around the ears, where it fell over the 
neck by way of a protection. On the blue ground 
of the helmet sparkled innumerable dots like birds’ 
eyes, formed of three circles, black, white, and red. 
It was adorned with scarlet and yellow lines, and the 
symbolic uraus snake, twisting its golden scales on 
the fore part, rose and swelled above the royal brow. 
Two long, purple, fluted lappets fell upon his shoulders 
and completed this majestic head-dress. 

A broad necklace, of seven rows of enamels, gems, 
and golden beads, swelled on the Pharaoh’s breast and 
shone in the sun. His upper garment was a sort of 
close-fitting jacket, of rose and black checkers, the 
ends of which, shaped like narrow bands, were twisted 
tightly several times around the bust. ‘The sleeves, 
which came down to the biceps and were edged with 
transverse lines of gold, red, and blue, showed round, 


firm arms, the left provided with a broad wristlet of 


Iit 


abe boobs ae ob ob oh a abe ab cbecbe foc cb col cb eof feeb ee 


we ove eve PTS CTO VTE We ete eve 


THE ROMANCE OF AVM UMiT® 


metal intended to protect it from the switch of the 
cord when the Pharaoh shot an arrow from his trian- 
gular bow. His right arm was adorned with a brace- 
let formed of a serpent twisted several times on itself, 
and in his hand he held a long golden sceptre ending 
in a lotus-bud. ‘The rest of the body was enveloped 
in the finest linen cloth with innumerable folds, held 
to the hips by a girdle inlaid with plates of enamel 
and gold. Between the jacket and the belt, the torso 
showed, shining and polished like rose granite worked 
by a skilful workman. Sandals with pointed upturned 
toes protected his long narrow feet, which were held 
close to one another like the feet of the gods on the 
walls of the temples. His smooth, beardless face 
with its great, regular features, which it seemed impos- 
sible for any human emotion to alter, and which the 
blood of vulgar life did not colour, with its deathlike 
pallor, its closed lips, its great eyes made larger still 
by black lines, the eyelids of which never closed any 
more than did those of the sacred hawk,— inspired 
through its very immobility respect and awe. It 
seemed as though those fixed eyes gazed upon eternity 
and the infinite only; surrounding objects did not 


appear to be reflected in them. ‘The satiety of enjoy- 


PE? 


shoo o os able sob abe abe ale cba cae ate abe cds abe cde ebe aby cle oe ate cke 


THE ROMANCE OF AvMUMMY 


ment, of will satished the moment it was expressed, 
the isolation of a demigod who has no fellow among 
mortals, the disgust of worship, and the weariness of 
triumph had forever marked that face, implacably 
sweet and of granite-like serenity. Not even Osiris 
judging the ‘souls of the dead could look more 
majestic and more calm. A great tame lion, lying 
by his side upon the litter, stretched out its enormous 
paws like a sphinx upon a pedestal, and winked its 
yellow eyes. A rope fixed to the litter, fastened to 
the Pharaoh the chariots of the conquered chiefs. 
He dragged them behind him like animals in a leash. 
These vanquished chiefs, in gloomy, fierce attitudes, 
whose elbows, drawn together by their points, formed 
an ugly angle, staggered awkwardly as they were 
dragged by the cars driven by Egyptian coachmen. 
Next came the war chariots of the young princes 
of the royal family, drawn by pairs of thorough-bred 
horses of noble and elegant shape, with slender legs 
and muscular quarters, their manes cut close and short, 
shaking their heads adorned with red plumes, frontlets, 
and headgear of metal bosses. A curved pole, adorned 
with scarlet squares, pressed down on their withers, 


and supported two small saddles surmounted with balls 


8 113 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
of polished brass held together by a light yoke, with 


curved ends. Girths and breast-harnesses richly em- 
broidered, and superb housings rayed with blue or red 
and fringed with tufts, completed their strong, grace- 
ful, and light harness. 

The body of the car, painted red and green, and 
ornamented with plates and bosses of bronze like the 
boss on the bucklers, had on either side two great 
quivers placed diagonally in opposite directions, the 
one containing javelins, and the other arrows. On 
either side a carved and gilded lion, its face wrinkled 
with a dreadful grin, seemed to roar, and to be about 
to spring at the foe. 

The young princes wore for a head-dress a narrow 
band which bound their hair and in which twisted, 
as it swelled its hood, the royal asp. For dress 
they wore a tunic embroidered around the neck and 
the sleeves with brilliant embroidery and bound at 
the waist with a leather belt fastened with a metal 
plate on which were engraved hieroglyphs. ‘Through 
the belt was passed a long, triangular, brazen-bladed 
poniard, the handle of which, fluted transversely, ended 
in a hawk’s-head. On the car, by the side of each 


prince, stood the driver, whose business it was to 


114 


cho be oe ob obs co oe oe oe de 


wre oe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


iP 
if 
i 
i> 
sh 
ie 
i 
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i 
- 
1 
- 


drive during the battle, and the equerry charged with 
warding off with a buckler the blows directed at 
the fighter, while he himself shot his arrows or hurled 
the javelins which he took from the quivers at the 
sides. 

Behind the princes came the chariots which formed 
the Egyptian cavalry, to the number of twenty thou- 
sand, each drawn by two horses and carrying three 
men. hese chariots came ten abreast, with wheels 
almost touching yet never meeting, so skilful were 
the drivers. Some lighter cars, intended for skir- 
mishes and reconnaissances came foremost, bearing a 
single warrior, who in order to have his hands free 
while fighting, passed the reins around his body. By 
leaning to the right, to the left or backwards, he di- 
rected and stopped his horses, and it was truly marvel- 
lous to see these noble animals, which seemed left to 
themselves, ouided by imperceptible movements and 
preserving an unchangingly regular gait. 

On one of these chariots the elegant Ahmosis, 
Nofré’s protégé, showed his tall figure and cast his 
glance over the multitude, trying to make out Tahoser. 

The trampling of the horses held in with difficulty, 


the thunder of the bronze-bound wheels, the metallic 


115 


checbe abe tools obs deals abe abe de cece cf cbo bao ch cf cee oe coe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


justling of weapons, imparted to the procession an 
imposing and formidable character well calculated to 
strike terror into the bravest souls. Helmets, plumes, 
corselets covered with green, red, and yellow scales, 
gilded bows, brazen swords, flashed and gleamed 
fiercely in the sun shining in the heavens above the 
Libyan chain like a great Osiris eye, and one felt 
that the charge of such an army must necessarily 
sweep the nations before it even as the storm drives 
the light straw. Under these numberless wheels the 
earth resounded and trembled as if in the throes of an 
earthquake. 

Next to the chariots came the infantry battalions 
marching in order, the men carrying their shields on 
the left arm, and a lance, a javelin, a bow, a sling, or 
an axe in the right hand. ‘The soldiers wore helmets 
adorned with two horse-hair tails. Their bodies were 
protected by a cuirass of crocodile-skin ; their impas- 
sible look, the perfect regularity of their motions, their 
coppery complexion, deepened still more by the recent 
expedition to the burning regions of Upper Egypt, the 
desert dust which lay upon their clothes, inspired 
admiration for their discipline and courage. With 


such soldiers Egypt could conquer the world. 


116 


decked ok ob cede ch bbe bec hah obec hoot 


eye oF oe we wre eve 


Leh ROMANCE UOF /Al’MUMMY 


Then came the troops of the allies, easily known by 
the barbarous shape of their helmets, like mitres cut 
off, or else surmounted with a crescent stuck on a 
point. Their broad-bladed swords, their saw-edged 
axes, must have inflicted incurable wounds. 

Slaves carried the booty announced by the herald on 
their shoulders or on stretchers, and belluaria led pan- 
thers, wild-cats, crawling as if they sought to hide 
themselves, ostriches flapping their wings, giraffes over- 
topping the crowd with their long necks, and even 
brown bears taken, it was said, in the Mountains of 
the Moon. 

The King had long since entered his palace, yet the 
defile was still proceeding. As he passed the revet- 
ment on which stood Tahoser and Nofré, the Pharaoh, 
whose litter, borne upon the shoulders of o€ris, placed 
him above the crowd on a level with the young girl, had 
slowly fixed upon her his dark glance. He had not 
turned his head, not a muscle of his face had moved, and 
his features had remained as motionless as the golden 
mask of a mummy, yet his eyes had turned between his 
painted eyelids towards Tahoser, and a flash of desire 
had lighted up their sombre discs, an effect as terrific 


as if the granite eyes of a divine simulacrum, suddenly 


117 


kkkkbbhbeeetettet ttt tke tee 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


lighted up, were to express a human thought. He had 
half raised one of his hands from the arm of his throne, 
a gesture imperceptible to every one, but which one of 
the servants marching near the litter noticed, and at 
once looked towards the daughter of Petamounoph. 
Meanwhile night had suddenly fallen, for there is no 
twilight in Egypt, — night, or rather a blue day, tread- 
ing close upon the yellow day. In the azure of 
infinite transparency gleamed unnumbered stars, their 
twinkling light reflected confusedly in the waters of the 
Nile, which was stirred by the boats that brought back 
to the other shore the population of Thebes; and the 
last cohorts of the army were still tramping across the 
plain, like a gigantic serpent, when the barge landed 


Tahoser at the gate of her palace. 


118 


LEALLALLALLLALLL ALL ALLA LS 
ede 1 TRIO NCE OF A MUMMY 
che abe abe abe be obs oho abe be abs che crab obo abe che abe obs obo feeble oft af oft 


P “HE Pharaoh reached his palace, situated a 
short distance from the parade ground on 
the left bank of the Nile. In the bluish 

transparency of the night the mighty edifice loomed 

more colossal still, and its huge outlines stood out with 
terrifying and sombre vigour against the purple back- 
ground of the Libyan chain. ‘The feeling of absolute 
power was conveyed by that mighty, immovable mass, 
upon which eternity itself could make no more impres- 
sion than a drop of water on marble. A vast court 
surrounded by thick walls, adorned at their summits 
with deeply cut mouldings, lay in front of the palace. 
At the end of the court rose two high columns with 
palm-leaf capitals, marking the entrance to a second 
court. Behind these columns rose a giant pylon, con- 
sisting of two huge masses enclosing a monumental 
gate, intended rather for colossi of granite than for mere 
flesh and blood. Beyond these propylaa, and filing 
the end of a third court, the palace proper appeared 
in its formidable majesty. Two buildings projected 


squarely forward, like the bastions of a fortress, exhibit- 


r1g 


she fro obe abe abe abe ce be he ba ebece cleo ba oe oe abe fe chro 


ores OFS eFe CVO we 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


ing on their faces low bassi-relievi of vast size, which 
represented, in the consecrated manner, the victorious 
Pharaoh scourging his enemies and trampling them 
under foot; immense pages of history carved with a 
chisel on colossal stone books which the most distant 
posterity was yet to read. ‘These buildings rose much 
higher than the pylons. ‘The cornices, curving out- 
wards and topped with great stones so arranged as to 
form battlements, showed superbly against the crest of 
the Libyan Mountains, which formed the background 
of the picture. 

The facade of the palace connected these build- 
ings and filled up the whole of the intervening space. 
Above its giant gateway, flanked with sphinxes, showed 
three rows of square windows, through which streamed 
the light from the interior and which formed upon the 
dark wall a sort of luminous checker-board. From 
the first story projected balconies, supported by statues 
of crouching prisoners. 

The officers of the king’s household, the eunuchs, 
the servants, and the slaves, informed of the approach of 
His Majesty by the blare of the trumpets and the roll 
of the drums, had proceeded to meet him, and waited, 


kneeling and prostrate, in the court paved with great 


L220 


See ee Oe Oe ee ae ee Oar) OO OS OSS OS OS? OSV CD 


THE ROMANCE. OF A MUMMY 


stone slabs. Captives, of the despised race of Scheto, 
bore urns filled with salt and olive oil, in which was 
dipped a wick, the fame of which crackled bright and 
clear. “These men stood ranged in line from the 
basalt gate to the entrance of the first court, motion- 
less like bronze lamp-bearers. 

Soon the head of the procession entered the pylon. 
and the bugles and the drums sounded with a din 
which, repeated by the echoes, drove the sleeping 
ibises from the entablatures. The bearers stopped at 
the gate in the facade between the two pavilions ; 
slaves brought a footstool with several steps and placed 
it by the side of the litter. “The Pharaoh rose with 
majestic slowness and stood for a few moments per- 
fectly motionless. Thus standing on a pedestal of 
shoulders, he soared above all heads and appeared to 
be twelve cubits high. Strangely lighted, half by the 
rising moon, half by the light of the lamps, in a cos- 
tume in which gold and enamels sparkled intermittently, 
he resembled Osiris, or Typhon rather. He descended 
the steps as if he were a statue, and at last entered the 
palace. 

A first inner court, framed in by a row of huge 


pillars covered with hieroglyphs, that bore a frieze 


I21 


chelsea be che ce oh eke 


Lrcbeote bead obo ols feeble abe obec 


oe VE Ot Le obs obs of ebool wre 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


ending in -volutes, was slowly crossed by the Pha- 
raoh in the midst of a crowd of prostrate slaves 
and maids. 

Then appeared another court surrounded by a 
covered cloister, and short columns, the capitals of 
which were formed of a cube of hard sandstone, on 
which rested the massive architrave. The imprint of 
indestructibility marked the straight lines and the geo- 
metric forms of this architecture built with pieces of 
mountains. ‘The pillars and the columns seemed to 
strike firmly into the ground in order to upbear the 
weight of the mighty stones placed on the cubes of 
their capitals, the walls to slope inwards so as to have 
a firmer foundation, and the stones to join together so 
as to form but one block; but polychromous decora- 
tions and basst-relievi hollowed out and enriched with 
more brilliant tints added, in the daytime, lightness and 
richness to these vast masses, which when night had 
fallen, recovered all their imposing effect. 

Under the cornice, in the Egyptian style, the un- 
changing lines of which formed against the sky a vast 
parallelogram of deep azure, quivered, in the intermit- 
tent breath of the breeze, lighted lamps placed at short 
distances apart. [he fish-pond in the centre of the 


IZ? 


che feof a oe oe de oe oh ob dba cbe cde cbeche doce oe cece 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


court mingled, as it reflected them, their red flashes 
with the blue gleams of the moon. Rows of shrubs 
planted around the basin gave out a faint, sweet per- 
fume. At the back opened the gate of the harem and 
of the private apartments, which were decorated with 
peculiar magnificence. 

Below the ceiling ran a frieze of uraeus snakes, stand- 
ing on their tails and swelling their hoods. On the 
entablature of the door, in the hollow of the cornice, the 
mystic globe outspread its vast, imbricated wings ; pillars 
ranged in symmetrical lines supported heavy sandstone 
blocks forming soffits, the blue ground of which was 
studded with golden stars. On the walls vast pictures, 
carved in low, flat relief and coloured with the most 
brilliant tints, represented the usual scenes of the harem 
and of home life. “The Pharaoh was seen on his 
throne, gravely playing at draughts with one of his 
women who stood nude before him, her head bound 
with a broad band from which rose a mass of lotus 
flowers. In another the Pharaoh, without parting 
with any of his sovereign and sacerdotal impassibility, 
stretched out his hand and touched the chin of a young 
maid dressed in a collar and bracelet, who held out to 


him a bouquet of flowers. Elsewhere he was seen 


123 


we oFe ere eve eve 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
undecided and smiling, as if he had slyly put off mak- 


ing a choice, in the midst of the young queens, who 
strove to overcome his gravity by all sorts of caressing 
and graceful coquetries. 

Other panels represented female musicians and 
dancers, women bathing, flooded with perfumes and 
massaged by slaves, —the poses so elegant, the forms 
so youthfully suave, and the outlines so pure, that no 
art has ever surpassed them. 

Rich and complicated ornamental designs, admirably 
carried out in harmonious green, blue, red, yellow, and 
white, covered the spaces left empty. On cartouches 
and bands in the shape of stele were inscribed the titles 
of the Pharaoh and inscriptions in his honour. 

On the shafts of the huge columns were decorative 
or symbolical figures wearing the pschent, armed 
with the tau, following each other in procession, 
and whose eyes, showing full upon a side face, 
seemed to look inquisitively into the hall. Lines 
of perpendicular hieroglyphs separated the zones 
of personages. Among the green leaves carved on 
the drum of the capital, buds and lotus flowers 
stood out in their natural colours, imitating baskets 


of bloom. 


124 


Ee ee eT ee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Between each pair of columns an elegant table of 
cedar bore on its platform a bronze cup filled with 
scented oil, from which the cotton wicks drew an 
odoriferous light. Groups of tall vases, bound together 
with wreaths, alternated with the lamps and held at the 
foot of each pillar sheaves of golden grain mingled with 
field grasses and balsamic plants. 

In the centre of the hall a round porphyry table, 
the disc of which was supported by the statue of a cap- 
tive, disappeared under. heaped-up urns, vases, flagons, 
and pots, whence rose a forest of gigantic artificial 
flowers; for real flowers would have appeared mean 
in the centre of that vast hall, and nature had to be 
proportioned to the mighty work of man. These 
enormous calyxes were of the most brilliant golden 
yellow, azure, and purple. 

At the back rose the throne, or chair, of the Pharaoh, 
the feet of which, curiously crossed and bound by en- 
circling ribbing, had in their re-entering angles four 
statuettes of barbaric Asiatic or African prisoners 
recognisable by their beards and their dress. “These 
figures, their elbows tied behind their backs, and kneel- 
ing in constrained attitudes, their bodies bowed, bore 


upon their humbled heads the cushion, checkered with 


n25 


che oe obs als ols ably ale als able als ale alee abr ele obs obo le ofa cb fe abe ebro 


OVS CTO Ore CVO ee Ore CTe WO WTO eve ove eFe ore 


THE ROMANCE OF ‘A(MARERtx 


gold, red, and black, on which sat their conqueror. 
Faces of chimerical animals from whose mouths fell, 
instead of a tongue, a long red tuft, adorned the cross- 
bars of the throne. 

On either side of it were ranged, for the princes, 
less splendid, though still extremely elegant and charm- 
ingly fanciful chairs; for the Egyptians are no less 
clever at carving cedar, cypress, and sycamore wood, in 
gilding, colouring, and inlaying it with enamels, than in 
cutting in the Philoe or Syéné quarries monstrous 
granite blocks for the palaces of the Pharaohs and the 
sanctuaries of the gods. 

The King crossed the hall with a slow, majestic step, 
without his painted eyelids having once moved; noth- 
ing indicated that he heard the cries of love that wel- 
comed him, or that he perceived the human beings 
kneeling or prostrate, whose brows were touched by the 
folds of the calasiris that fell around his feet. He sat 
down, placing his ankles close together and his hands 
on his knees in the solemn attitude of the gods. 

The young princes, handsome as women, took their 
seats to the right and left of their father. “The ser- 
vants took off their enamelled necklaces, their belts, 


and their swords, poured flagons of scent upon their 


126 


tKtetebeteetettetttdttbtt tts 


TEE ROMANCE: OF (An WOU MM Y 


hair, rubbed their arms with aromatic oils, and presented 
them with wreaths of flowers, cool, perfumed collars, 
odorous luxuries better suited to the festival than the 
heavy richness of gold, of precious stones and pearls, 
which, for the matter of that, harmonise admirably 
with flowers. 

Lovely nude slaves, whose slender forms showed the 
graceful transition from childhood to youth, their hips 
circled with a narrow belt that concealed none of their 
charms, lotus flowers in their hair, flagons of wavy 
alabaster in their hands, timidly pressed around the 
Pharaoh and poured palm oil over his shoulders, his 
arms, and his torso, polished like jasper. Other maids 
waved around his head broad fans of painted ostrich- 
feathers on long ivory or sandal-wood handles, that, as 
they were warmed by their small hands, gave forth a 
delightful odour. Others placed before the Pharaoh 
stalks of nymphoea that bloomed like the cup of the 
censers. All these attentions were rendered with a 
deep devotion, and a sort of respectful awe, as if to a 
divine, immortal personage, called down by pity from 
the superior zones to the vile tribe of men; for the 
king is the Son of the gods, the favoured of Phré, the 


protégé of Ammon Ra. 


127 


seo oe oe oe oe oe he oe oe abe ee che oe ce oe ob ob chee oh ook 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


The’women of the harem had risen from their pros- 
trate attitude, and seated themselves on superb, carved 
and gilded chairs, with red-leather cushions filled with 
thistle-down. ‘Tchus ranged, they formed a line of 
graceful, smiling heads which a painter would have 
loved to reproduce. Some were dressed in tunics of 
white gauze with stripes alternately opaque and trans- 
parent, the narrow sleeves of which left bare the deli- 
cate, round arms covered with bracelets from the wrist 
to the elbow: others, bare to the waist, wore a skirt of 
pale lilac rayed with darker stripes, and covered with a 
fillet of little rose beads which showed in the diaper 
the cartouche of the Pharaoh traced on the stuff; others 
wore red skirts with black-pearl fillets; others again, 
draped in a tissue as light as woven air, as transparent 
as glass, wound the folds around them, and managed 
to show off coquettishly the shape of their lovely 
bosoms; others were enclosed in a sheath covered with 
blue, green, or red scales which moulded their forms 
accurately ; and others again had their shoulders cov- 
ered with a sort of pleated cape, and their fringed 
skirts were fastened below the breast with a scarf with 
long, floating ends. 


The head-dresses were no less varied. Sometimes 


128 


chee be he oe oe ace code ead deca obec feck ceo feo 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


the plaited hair was spun out into curls; sometimes it 
was divided into three parts, one of which fell down 
the back and the other two on either side of the cheeks. 
Huge periwigs, closely curled, with numberless cords 
maintained transversely by golden threads, rows of 
enamels, or pearls, were put on like helmets over 
young and lovely faces, which sought of art an aid 
which their beauty did not need. 

All these women held in their hands a flower of 
the blue or white lotus, and breathed amorously, with a 
fluttering of their nostrils, the penetrating odour which 
the broad calyx exhaled. A stalk of the same flower, 
springing from the back of their necks, bowed over 
their heads and showed its bud between their eye- 
brows darkened with antimony. 

In front of them black or white slaves, with no 
other garment than a waist girdle, held out to them 
necklaces of flowers made of crocuses, the blooms 
of which, white outside, are yellow inside, purple 
saflowers, golden-yellow chrysanthemums, red-berried 
nightshade, myosotis whose flowers seemed made of 
blue enamel of the statues of Isis, and nepenthes whose 
intoxicating odour makes one forget everything, even 


the far-distant home. 


9 129 


obe abe abs abe ofp ae oc: abn ofp Ee O82? 080 of oe obs aby obs obs by obs obs obs obs cbr 


Ce ee oFe Che ote CO wie CVS CFS GIO CTS CHO CTO VIS Vie VIO ere Te SHO eve 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


These slaves were followed by others, who on the 
upturned palm of their right hands bore cups of silver 
or bronze full of wine, and in the left held napkins 
with which the guests wiped their lips. 

‘The wines were drawn from amphore of clay, glass, 
or metal held in elegant woven baskets placed on four- 
footed pedestals made of a light, supple wood interlaced , 
in ingenious fashion. ‘The baskets contained seven 
sorts of wines: date wine, palm wine, and wine of 
the grape, white, red, and green wines, new wine, 
Phoenician and Greek wines, and white Mareotis 
wine with a bouquet of violets. 

The Pharaoh also took a cup from the hands of his 
cup-bearer standing near his throne, and put to his 
royal lips the strengthening drink. 

‘Then sounded the harps, the lyres, the double 
flutes, the lutes, accompanying a song of triumph 
which choristers, ranged opposite the throne, one 
knee on the ground, accentuated as they beat time 
with the palms of their hands. 

The repast began. ‘The dishes, brought by Ethio- 
pians from the vast kitchens of the palace, where a 
thousand slaves were busy preparing the feast in a 


fiery atmosphere, were placed on tables close by the 


130 


shots -t obo abe ats le he of ee & checks oe obo ok oboe rw ots obs shock 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMM 


guests. [he dishes, of scented wood admirably 
carved, of. bronze, of earthenware or porcelain 
enamelled in brilliant colours, held large pieces of 
beef, antelope legs, trussed geese, siluras from the 
Nile, dough drawn out into long tubes and rolled, 
cakes of sesamum and honey, green watermelons 
with rosy meat, pomegranates full of rubies, grapes 
the colour of amber or of amethyst. Wreaths of 
papyrus crowned these dishes with their green foliage. 
The cups were also wreathed in flowers, and in the 
centre of the table, amid a vast heap of golden- 
coloured bread stamped with designs and marked 
with hieroglyphs, rose a tall vase whence emerged, 
Spraying as it fell, a vast sheaf of persolutas, 
myrtles, pomegranates, convolvulus, chrysanthemums, 
heliotropes, seriphiums, and periplocas, a mingling of 
colours and of scents. Under the tables, around 
the supporting pillar, were arranged pots of lotus. 
Flowers, flowers everywhere, even under the seats of 
the guests! The women wore them on their arms, 
round their necks, on their heads in the shape of 
bracelets, necklaces, and crowns; the lamps burned 
amid huge bouquets, the dishes disappeared under 


leaves, the wines sparkled amid violets and _ roses. 


I31 


dels ook oe oe oe oh deeded de cdecbecbebe eco clot 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


It was a most characteristic, gigantic debauch of 
flowers, a colossal orgy of scents, unknown to other 
nations. 

Slaves constantly brought from the gardens, which 
they plundered without diminishing their wealth, arm- 
fuls of rose laurel, of pomegranate, of lotus, to re- 
new the flowers which had faded, while servants cast 
grains of nard and cinnamon upon the red-hot coals 
of the censers. 

When the dishes and the boxes carved in the shape 
of birds, fishes, and chimeras, which held the sauces 
and condiments, had been cleared away, as well as the 
ivory, bronze, or wooden spatula, and the bronze and 
flint knives, the guests washed their hands, and cups of 
wine and fermented drinks kept on passing around. 

The cup-bearer drew with a long-handled ladle the 
dark wine and the transparent wine from two great, 
golden vases adorned with figures of horses and rams, 
which were held in equilibrium in front of the Pharaoh 
by means of tripods on which they were set. 

Female musicians appeared — for the orchestra of 
male musicians had withdrawn. A wide gauze tunic 
covered their slender, youthful bodies, veiling them no 


more than the pure water of a pool conceals the form 


132 


> 


HELLA SLES Att stsetes 
(iE! ROMANCE OF? Ay MU MIM Y 


of the bather who plunges into it. Papyrus wreaths 
bound their thick hair and fell to the ground in long 
tendrils; lotus flowers bloomed on top of their heads; 
great golden rings sparkled in their ears, necklaces of 
enamel and pearl encircled their necks, and bracelets 
clanked and rattled on their wrists. One played on 
the harp, another on the lute, a third on the double 
flute, crossing her arms and using the right for the left 
flute and the left for the right flute; a fourth placed 
horizontally against her breast a five-stringed lyre; a 
fifth struck the onager-skin of a square drum; and a 
little girl seven or eight years of age, with flowers in 
her hair and a belt drawn tight around her, beat time 
by clapping her hands. 

The dancers came in. ‘They were slight, slender, 
and as lithe as serpents; their great eyes shone be- 
tween the black lines of their lids, their pearly teeth 
between the red bars of their lips. Long curls floated | 
down on their cheeks. Some wore full tunics striped 
white and blue, which floated around them like a mist ; 
others wore mere pleated short skirts falling over the 
hips to the knees, which allowed their beautiful, slender 
legs and round muscular thighs to be easily seen. 


They first assumed poses of languid voluptuousness 


ue 


CRE OMS OTS CVS OTS OTS OTe CFO Oe OFS OFS STO OTS CFO OFS CFO OWE OTE 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


all abe bs ols obs abe alle abe abe ole able coos be ols ob ofr obs olla ob le ole ob of 


and indolent grace, then, waving branches of bloom 
and clinking castanets, shaped like the head of Hathor, 
striking tambourines with their little closed hands, or 
making the tanned skin of drums resound under their 
thumbs, they gave themselves up to swifter steps and — 
to bolder postures; they pirouetted, they whirled with 
ever-increasing ardour. But the Pharaoh, thoughtful 
and dreamy, did not condescend to bestow a glance of 
satisfaction upon them ; his fixed gaze did not even fall 
upon them. 

They withdrew, blushing and confused, pressing their 
palpitating breasts with their hands. 

Dwarfs with twisted feet, with swollen and deformed 
bodies, whose grimaces were fortunate enough at times 
to bring a smile to the majestic, stony face of the 
Pharaoh, were no more successful; their contortions 
did not bring a single smile to his lips, the corners of 
which remained obstinately fixed. 

To the sound of strange music produced by tri- 
angular harps, sistra, castanets, cymbals, and bugles, 
Egyptian clowns wearing high, white mitres of ridic- 
ulous shape advanced, closing two fingers of their hand 
and stretching out the other three, repeating their gro- 


tesque gestures with automatic accuracy, and singing 


134 


chal be cbe ts oho che oh ae etek tec oe chee che cece oe cheeks 


We ela es “ve ove ore Oe Te We vte evo 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


extravagant songs full of dissonances. His Majesty 
never changed countenance. 

Women wearing a small helmet from which de- 
pended three long cords ending in a tassel, their wrists 
and ankles bound with black leather bands, and wearing 
close fitting drawers suspended by a single brace passed 
over their shoulders, performed tricks of strength and 
contortions each more surprising than another; pos- 
turing, throwing themselves back, bending their supple 
bodies like willow branches, and touching the ground 
with their necks without displacing their heels, support- 
ing in that impossible attitude the weight of their com- 
panions; others juggled with a ball, two balls, three 
balls, before, behind, their arms crossed, astride of or 
standing upon the loins of one of the women of the 
company. One, indeed, the cleverest, put on blinkers 
like ‘mei, the goddess of justice, and caught the globes 
in her hands without letting a single one fall. The 
Pharaoh was not moved by these marvels. 

He cared no more either for the prowess of two 
combatants who, wearing a cestus on the left arm, 
fought with sticks. Men throwing at a block of 
wood knives which struck with miraculous accuracy 


the spot indicated did not interest him either. He 


135 


aeelan bo = 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


she oe obs ls obras elle ols obs ole ole ecb obn on ols ofa obs onan abe ols ole ol 


even refused the draught-board which the lovely “wea, 
whom he looked upon usually with favour, presented te 
him as she offered herself as an adversary. In vain 
Amense, Taia, Hont-Reché ventured upon timid 
caresses. He rose and withdrew to his apartments 
without having uttered a word. 

Motionless on the threshold stood the servant who, 
during the triumphal procession, had noticed the im- 
perceptible gesture of His Majesty. 

He said: “ O King, loved of the gods! I left the 
procession, crossed the Nile on a light papyrus-bark 
and followed the vessel of the woman on whom your 
hawk glance deigned to fall. She is Tahoser, the 
daughter of the priest Petamounoph.”’ 

The Pharaoh smiled and said: “It is well. I give 
thee a chariot and its horses, a pectoral ornament of 
beads of lapis-lazuli and cornelian, with a golden circle 
weighing as much as the green basalt weight.”’ 

Meanwhile the sorrowing women pulled the flowers 
from their hair, tore their gauze robes, and sobbed, 
stretched out upon the polished stone floors which re- 
flected, mirror-like, the image of their beautiful bodies, 
saying, ‘One of these accursed barbaric captives must 


have stolen our master’s heart.’’ 


136 


N the left bank of the Nile stood the villa of 

() Poéri, the young man who had filled Ta- 

hoser with such emotion when, proceeding 

to view the triumphal return of the Pharaoh, she had 

passed in her ox-drawn car under the balcony whereon 
leaned carelessly the handsome dreamer. 

It was a vast estate, having something of the farm 
and something of the house of pleasaunce, which 
stretched between the banks of the river and the foot- 
hills of the Libyan chain, over an immense extent of 
ground, covered during the inundation by the reddish 
waters laden with fertilising mud, and which during 
the rest of the year was irrigated by skilfully planned 
canals. 

A wall, built of limestone drawn from the neighbour- 
ing mountains, enclosed the garden, the store-houses, 
the cellars, and the dwelling. The walls sloped slightly 
inwards and were surmounted by an acroter with metal 
spikes, capable of stopping whosoever might attempt 
to climb over. Three doors, the leaves of which were 


hung on massive pillars, each adorned with a giant 


mens 


S——_——— et 


cheats ab ob ob oho oe che de de chcbecbe be deel oba cbc clo be oh shale 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
lotus-flower planted on top of the capital, were cut in 
the wall on three of the sides. In place of the fourth 
door rose a building which looked out into the garden 
from one of its facades, and on the road from the 
other. 

The building in no respect resembled the houses in 
Thebes. ‘The architect had not sought to reproduce 
either the heavy foundations, the great monumental 
lines, or the rich materials of city buildings, but had 
striven to attain elegant lightness, refreshing simplicity, 
and pastoral gracefulness in harmony with the verdure 
and the peacefulness of the country. 

The lower courses of the building, which the Nile 
reached in times of high flood, were of sandstone, and 
the rest of the building of sycamore wood. ‘Tall, 
fluted columns, extremely slender and resembling the 
staffs of the standards before the king’s palace, sprang 
from the ground and rose unbroken to the palm-leaved 
cornice, where swelled out, under a simple cube, their 
lotus-flowered capitals. 

The single story built above the ground-floor did 
not rise as high as the mouldings which bordered 
the terraced roof, and thus left an empty space 
between the ceiling and the flat roof of the villa. 


138 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Short, small pillars, with flowery capitals, divided into 
groups of four by the tall columns, formed an open 
gallery around this aerial apartment open to every 
wind. 

Windows broader at the base than at the top of the 
opening, in accordance with the Egyptian style, and 
closed with double sashes, lighted the first story. “The 
ground-floor was lighted by narrower windows placed 
closer to each other. | 

Above the door, which was adorned with deep 
mouldings, was a cross planted in a heart and framed 
in a parallelogram cut in the lower part to allow the 
sign of favourable omen to pass; the meaning being, 
as every one knows, “ A good house.” 

The whole building was painted in soft, pleasant 
colours; the lotus of the capitals showed alternately 
red and blue in the green capsules; the gilded palm- 
leaves of the cornices stood out upon a blue back- 
ground; the white walls of the facades set off the 
painted framework of the windows, and lines of red 
and green outlined panels and imitated the joints of 
the stone. 

Outside the enclosing wall, which was built flush 


with the dwelling, stood a row of trees cut to a point, 


+39 


che oe ode obo obs be che che cfr be of 


+ tbbtttbbtbttthkbed 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


which formed a screen against the dusty southern wind, 
always laden with the desert heat. 

In front of the building grew a vast vineyard. 
Stone shafts with lotus capitals placed at symmetrical 
distances outlined, through the vineyard, walks cutting 
each other at right angles. Boughs of vine leaves 
joined one plant to another and formed a succession 
of leafy arches under which one could walk erect. 
The ground, carefully raked and heaped up at the foot 
of each plant, contrasted by its brown colour with the 
bright green of the leaves, amid which played the sun- 
beams and the breeze. 

On either side of the building two oblong pools bore 
upon their transparent surface aquatic birds and flow- 
ers. At the corners of these pools four great palm- 
trees spread out fanwise their green wreath of leaves at 
the top of their scaly trunks. 

Compartments, regularly traced by narrow paths, 
divided the garden around the vineyard, marking the 
place of each different crop. Along a sort of belt 
walk which ran entirely around the enclosure dém 
palms alternated with sycamores, squares of ground 
were planted with fig, peach, almond, olive, pome- 


granate and other fruit trees; others, again, were 


140 


BLLAEA ALE LASS tttsotetetettese 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


planted with ornamental trees only: the tamarisk, the 
cassia, the acacia, the myrtle, the mimosa, and some 
still rarer gum-trees found beyond the cataracts of the 
Nile, under the Tropic of Cancer, in the oases of the 
Libyan Desert, and upon the shores of the Erythrean 
Gulf; for the Egyptians are very fond of cultivating 
shrubs and flowers, and they exact new species as a 
tribute from the peoples they have conquered. 

Flowers of all kinds, and many varieties of water- 
melons, lupines, and onions adorned the beds. “Iwo 
other pools of greater size, fed by the covered canal 
leading from the Nile, each bore a small boat to enable 
the master of the estate to enjoy the pleasure of fish- 
ing. Fishes of divers forms and brilliant colours 
played in the limpid waters among the stalks and the 
broad leaves of the lotus. Banks of luxuriant vegeta- 
tion surrounded these pools and were reflected in their 
green mirror. 

Near each pool rose a kiosk formed of slender 
columns bearing a light roof and surrounded by an 
open balcony whence one could enjoy the sight of 
the waters and breathe the coolness of the morning and 
the evening while reclining on a rustic seat of wood 


and reeds. 


I4I 


i a 


abe abe abe ols obs obs obs abe che ole of alle che che obs obs abe obs ofr be obs obs oo obs 


Che YS Ve GTO WE VTE WO WE We WO Ce CVS UTS WTS CHS OWE 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


The garden, lighted by the rising sun, had a bright, 
happy, restful look. The green of the trees was so 
brilliant, the colours of the flowers so splendid, air and 
light filled so joyously the vast enclosure with breeze 
and sunbeams, the contrast of the rich greenness with 
the bare whiteness of the chalky sterility of the 
Libyan chain, the crest of which was seen above 
the walls cutting into the blue sky, was so marked 
that one felt the wishto stop and set up one’s tent 
there. It looked like a nest purposely built for a 
longed-for happiness. 

Along the walks travelled servants bearing on their 
shoulders a yoke of bent wood, from the ends of 
which hung by ropes two clay jars filled at the reser- 
voirs, the contents of which they poured into small 
basins dug at the foot of each plant. Others, 
handling a jar suspended from a pole working on a 
post, filled with water a wooden gutter which carried 
it to the parts of the garden that needed irrigating. 
Gardeners were clipping the trees to a point or into 
an elliptical shape. With the help of a hoe formed of 
two pieces of hard wood bound by a cord and thus 
making a hook, other workmen were preparing the 


ground for planting. 


142 


abe obs ols obs obs ale abe abs abr oboele ob cbr als obs obs abe ele ate ole alo ole 


We ete eve Ove ce MO CVO VFS OFS eTY ove OTE oF LHe 


abe obs « L 
THE ROMANCE “OF A MUMMY 


It was a delightful sight to see these men with 
their black, woolly hair, their bodies the colour of 
brick, dressed only in a pair of white drawers, going 
and coming amid the greenery with orderly activity, 
singing a rustic song to which their steps kept time. 
The birds perched on the trees seemed to know them, 
and scarcely to fly off when, as they passed, they 
rubbed against the branches. 

The door of the building opened, and Poéri appeared 
on the threshold. Though he was dressed in the 
Egyptian fashion, his features were not in accordance 
with the national type, and it took no long observation 
to see that he did not belong to the native race of 
the valley of the Nile. He was assuredly not a 
Rot’en’no. His thin aquiline nose, his flat cheeks, 
his serious-looking, closed lips, the perfect oval of 
his face, were essentially different from the African 
nose, the projecting cheek-bones, the thick lips, and 
broad face characteristic of the Egyptians. Nor was 
his complexion the same; the copper tint was replaced 
by an olive pallor, which the rich, pure blood flushed 
slightly ; his eyes, instead of showing black between 
their lines of antimony, were of a dark blue like the 


sky of night; his hair, silkier and softer, curled in 


143 


doce oe ode obs oh oe oe oe a abe cdocde oo lec clea a cla be abe bale 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


less crisp undulations, and his shoulders did not 
exhibit that rigid, transversal line which is the charac- 
teristic sign of the race as represented on the statues 
of the temples and the frescoes of the tombs. 

All these characteristics went to form a remarkable 
beauty, which Petamounoph’s daughter had been unable 
to resist. Since the day when Poéri had by chance 
appeared to her, leaning upon the gallery of the build- 
ing —which was his favourite place when he was 
not busy with the farm work —-she had returned 
many times under pretext of driving, and had made 
her chariot pass under the balcony of the villa; but 
although she had put on her handsomest tunics, fast- 
ened around her neck her richest necklaces and encir- 
cled her wrists with her most wondrously chased 
bracelets, wreathed her hair with the freshest lotus- 
flowers, drawn to the temples the black line of her 
eyes, and brightened her cheeks with rouge, Poéri 
had never seemed to pay the smallest attention to her. 

And yet ‘Tahoser was rarely beautiful, and the 
love which the pensive tenant of the villa disdained, 
the Pharoah would willingly have purchased at a 
great price. In exchange for the priest’s daughter he 


would have given Twea, Taia, Amense, Hont-Reché, 


144 


cele be ae che of co oe che ofr tocde lolol coos coals abe ook 


wwe ene ow ve wiv wo 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


nis Asiatic captives, his vases of gold and silver, his 
necklaces of gems, his war chariots, his invincible army, 
his sceptre, —all, in a word, even his tomb, on which 
since the beginning of his reign had been working in 
the darkness thousands upon thousands of workmen. 

Love is not the same in the hot regions swept 
by a fiery wind as on the icy shores where calm 
descends from heaven with the cold; it is not blood 
but fire that flows in the veins. So “‘Tahoser lan- 
guished and fainted, though she breathed perfumes, 
surrounded herself with flowers, and drank draughts 
that bring forgetfulness. Music wearied her or over- 
excited her feelings; she had ceased to take any 
pleasure in the dances of her companions; at night, 
sleep fled from her eyelids, and breathless, stifling, 
her breast heaving with sighs, she would leave her 
sumptuous couch and stretch herself out upon the 
broad slabs of the pavement, pressing her bosom 
against the hard granite as if she wished to breathe in 
its coolness. 

On the night which followed the triumphal entry 
of the Pharaoh, Tahoser felt so unhappy and life 
seemed so empty that she determined not to die 


without having made at least one last effort. 


10 145 


shod doo ch ace do cbe eecbectecdecle obec ooo oleae sec 


UNO Cho CVD CVS CHO CTO OVO CTS OFS OF OTE BTS STW OVO OVE OTe CTO 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


of, 
We 


She wrapped herself up in a piece of common stuff, 
kept on but a single bracelet of odoriferous wood, 
twisted a piece of striped gauze around her head, and 
with the first light of the dawn, without being heard 
by Nofré, who was dreaming of the handsome Ahmo- 
sis, she left her room, crossed the garden, drew the 
bolts of the water gate, proceeded to the quay, waked 
a waterman asleep in his papyrus boat, and had herself 
transported to the other bank of the stream. 

Staggering and pressing her little hand to her heart 
to still its beating, she drew near Poéri’s dwelling. 

It was now broad daylight, and the gates were 
opening to give passage to the ox teams going to work, 
and to the flocks going forth to pasture. 

Tahoser knelt on the threshold and placed her hand 
above her head with a supplicating gesture, more beau- 
tiful, perhaps, even in this humble attitude and in her 
mean dress. Her bosom rose and fell and tears 
streamed down her pale cheeks. 

Poéri saw her and took her for what she was, 
indeed, a most unhappy woman. 

“Enter,” said he; “‘ enter without fear. “This house 


is hospitable.” 


146 


see oe ake be ce aoe echo cbe cde docde cde obec cece oh check 
5p 1 ap | ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
he abe oe of ahs obs abe ole cfs fe obs ebooks abe ols olls of obe abn ofe obs obs obo obs 


AHOSER, encouraged by the friendly words 
of Poéri, abandoned her supplicating atti- 
tude and rose. A rich glow flushed 

her cheek but now so pale; shame came back to 
her with hope; she blushed at the strange action to 
which love had driven her; she hesitated to pass 
the threshold which she had crossed so often in her 
dreams. Her maidenly scruples, stifled for a time 
by passion, resumed their power in the presence of 
reality. 

The young man, thinking that timidity, the com- 
panion of misfortune, alone prevented T’ahoser from 
entering the house, said to her in a soft, musical voice 
marked by a foreign accent, — 

«« Enter, maiden, and do not tremble so. My home 
is large enough to shelter you. If you are weary, 
rest; if you are thirsty, my servants will bring you 


pure water cooled in porous clay-jars; if you are 


hungry, they will set before you wheaten bread, dates, 


and dried figs.” 


a 


147 


shoe obec ob ob of 


fad 
eve ere 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Petamounoph’s daughter, encouraged by these hos- 
pitable words, entered the house, which justified the 
hieroglyph of welcome inscribed upon the gate. 

Poéri took her to a room on the ground-floor, the 
walls of which were painted with green vertical bands 
ending in lotus flowers, making the apartment pleasant 
to the eye. A fine mat of reeds woven in symmetri- 
cal designs covered the floor. At each corner of the 
room great sheaves of flowers filled tall vases, held 
in place by pedestals, and scattered their perfume 
through the cool shade of the hall. At the back 
a low sofa, the wood-work of which was ornamented 
with foliage and chimerical animals, tempted with its 
broad bed the fatigued or idle guest. “Two chairs, the 
seats made of Nile reeds, with sloping back, strength- 
ened by stays, a wooden foot-stool cut in the shape 
of a shell and resting upon three legs, an oblong table, 
also three-legged, bordered with inlaid work and orna- 
mented in the centre with urzus snakes, wreaths, and 
agricultural symbols, and on which was placed a 
vase of rose and blue lotus, — completed the furniture 
of the room, which was pastoral in its simplicity 
and gracefulness. 


Poéri sat down on the sofa. ‘Tahoser, bending one 


148 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


leg under her thigh and raising one knee, knelt before 
the young man who fixed upon her a glance full of 
kindly questioning. She was most lovely in that atti- 
tude. ‘The gauze veil in which she was enveloped 
exhibited, as it fell back, the rich mass of her hair 
bound with a narrow white ribbon, and revealed 
her gentle, sweet, sad face. Her sleeveless tunic 
showed her lovely arms bare to the shoulder and left 
them free. 


> 


“© am called Poéri,” said the young man; “I am 
steward of the royal estates, and have the right to wear 
the gilded ram’s-horns on my state head-dress.”’ 

“And I am called Hora,’ replied Tahoser, who 
had arranged her little story beforehand. ‘ My par- 
ents are dead, their goods were sold by their credi- 
tors, leaving me just enough to pay for their burial ; 
so I have been left alone and without means. But 
since you are kind enough to receive me, I shall 
repay you for your hospitality. I have been taught 
the work of women, although my condition did not 
oblige me to perform it. I can spin and weave 
linen with thread of various colours; I can imitate 
flowers and embroider ornaments on stuffs; I can 


even, when you are tired by your work and overcome 


149 


che boob ob ae abe ohooh ofc ob obo cbe fe obe cere obo faa feo ne 


OTS CFO ove OVS ee OFS OTe 


THE ROMANCE OF ACMA wi ae 
by the heat of the day, delight you with song, harp, 


orn lite: 7 

‘¢ Hora, you are welcome to my dwelling,” said the 
young man. “ You will find here, without taxing 
your strength, for you seem to me to be delicate, 
— occupation suitable for a maiden who has known 
better days; among my maids are gentle and good 
girls who will be pleasant companions for you, and 
who will show you how we live in this pastoral home. » 
So the days will pass, and perhaps brighter ones will 
dawn for you. If not, you can quietly grow old in 
my home in the midst of abundance and peace. The 
guest whom the gods send is sacred.” 

Having said these words, Poéri arose, as if to avoid 
the thanks of the supposed Hora, who had prostrated 
herself at his feet and was kissing them, as do wretches 
who have just been granted a favour; but the lover 
in her had taken the place of the suppliant, and her 
ripe, rosy lips found it hard to leave those beautiful, 
clean, white feet that resembled the jasper feet of 
the gods. 

Before going out to superintend the work of the 
farm, Poéri turned around on the threshold of the 


room and said, — 


150 


“© Hora, remain here until I have appointed a room 
for you. I shall send you some food by one of my 
servants.” 

And he walked away quietly, the whip which 
marked his rank hanging from his wrist. “The work- 
men saluted him, placing one hand on their head and 
the other to the ground, but by the cordiality of their 
salute it was easily seen that he was a kind master. 
Sometimes he stopped to give an order or a piece 
of advice, for he was greatly skilled in matters of 
agriculture and gardening. Then he resumed _ his 
walk, looking to the right and left and carefully in- 
specting everything. ‘Tahoser, who had humbly ac- 
companied him to the door, and had crouched on the 
threshold, her elbow on her knee and her chin on the 
palm of her hand, followed him with her glance until 
he disappeared under the leafy arches. She kept 
on looking long after he had passed out by the gate 
into the fields. 

A servant, in accordance with an order which Poéri 
had given when he went out, brought on a tray a 
goose-leg, onions baked in the ashes, wheaten bread 
and figs, and a jar of water closed with myrtle 


flowers. 


I51 


cede ode de oe ok de oe ok oe obeadedb ooo oleae oe oo oe oe ook 


we Me he 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘“'The master sends you this. Eat, maiden, and 
regain your strength.” 

‘Tahoser was not very hungry, but her part required 
that she should exhibit some appetite; the poor must 
necessarily devour the food which pity throws them. 
So she ate, and drank a long draught of the cool water. 
The servant having gone, she resumed her contem- 
plative attitude. Innumerable contradictory thoughts 
filled her mind: sometimes with maidenly shame she 
repented the step she had taken; at others, carried 
away by her passion, she exulted in her own audacity. 
Then she said to herself: ‘ Here I am, it is true, 
under Poéri’s roof; I shall see him freely every day; 
I shall silently drink in his beauty, which is more that 
of a god than of a man; I shall hear his lovely voice, 
which is like the music of the soul. But will he, 
who never paid any attention to me when I passed 
by his home dressed in my most brilliant garments, 
adorned with my richest gems, perfumed with scents 
and flowers, mounted on my painted and gilded car 
surmounted by a sunshade, and surrounded like a 
queen with a retinue of servants, — will he pay more 
attention to the poor suppliant maiden whom he has 


received through pity and who is dressed in mean 


152 


she che abe ate abe che he de oh cee ctecde cece ce obec ocho ce che chee 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


stuff? Will my wretchedness accomplish what my 
wealth could not do? It may be, after all, that I 
am ugly, and that Nofré flatters me when she main- 
tains that from the unknown sources of the Nile 
to the place where it casts itself into the sea there 
is no lovelier maid than her mistress. Yet no, — I 
am beautiful; the blazing eyes of men have told 
me so a thousand times, and especially have the an- 
noyed airs and the disdainful pouts of the women 
who passed by me confirmed it. Will Poéri, who 
has inspired me with such mad passion, never love 
me? He would have received just as kindly an old, 
wrinkled woman with withered breasts, clothed in 
hideous rags, and with feet grimy with dust. Any 
one but he would at once have recognised, under 
the disguise of Hora, Tahoser the daughter of the 
high-priest Petamounoph; but he never cast his 
eyes upon me any more than does the basalt statue 
of a god upon the devotees who offer up to it 
quarters of antelope and baskets of lotus.” 

These thoughts cast down the courage of Tahoser. 
Then she regained confidence, and said to herself 
that her beauty, her youth, her love would surely 


at last move that insensible heart. She would be 


153 


shee oe be oe ale be be abe cl taba cle ete cta ole orale eee e oh hole 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


sO sweet, so attentive, so devoted, she would use so 
much art and coquetry in dressing herself, that certainly 
Poéri would not be able to resist. “Chen she promised 
herself to reveal to him that the humble servant- 
maid was a girl of high rank, possessing slaves, 
estates, and palaces, and she foresaw, in her imagina- 
tion, a life of splendid and radiant happiness follow- 
ing upon a period of obscure felicity. 

“ First and foremost, let me make myself beautiful,” 
she said, as she rose and walked towards one of the 
pools. 

On reaching it, she knelt upon the stone margin, 
washed her face, her neck, and her shoulders. The 
disturbed water showed her in its mirror, broken by 
innumerable ripples, her vague, trembling image which 
smiled up to her as through green gauze; and the little 
fishes, seeing her shadow and thinking that crumbs of 
bread were about to be thrown to them, drew near the 
edge. in shoals. She gathered two or three lotus 
flowers which bloomed on the surface of the pool, 
twisted their stems around the band that held in her 
hair, and made thus a head-dress which all the skill of 
Nofré could never have equalled, even had she emptied 


her mistress’s jewel-caskets. 


154 


chee fe oho oho a ah abe he che rakes doce cbe chaebol chee abe shook 


Re oe ore ore oe ere wre Te 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
When she had finished and rose refreshed and radi- 


ant, a tame ibis, which had gravely watched her, drew 
itself up on its two long legs, stretched out its long 
neck, and flapped its wings two or three times as if to 
applaud her. 

Having finished her toilet, I'ahoser resumed her 
place at the door of the house and waited for Poéri. 
‘The heavens were of a deep blue; the light shimmered 
in visible waves through the transparent air; intoxicat- 
ing perfumes rose from the flowers and the plants; the 
birds hopped amid the branches, pecking at the berries ; 
the fluttering butterflies chased one another. This 
charming spectacle was rendered yet more bright by 
human activity, which enlivened it by the communica- 
tion of a soul. ‘The gardeners came and went, the ser- 
vants returned laden with panniers of grass or vegetables ; 
others, standing at the foot of the fig trees, caught in 
baskets the fruits thrown to them by monkeys trained to 
pluck them and perched on the highest branches. 

Tahoser contemplated with delight this beautiful 
landscape, the peacefulness of which was filling her 
soul, and she said to herself, “ How sweet it would be 
to be beloved here, amid the light, the scents, and the 


flowers.’’ 


155 


LLALCEALE LSS AAAS ALES LS 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Poéri returned. He had finished his tour of inspec- 
tion, and withdrew to his room to spend the burning 
hours of the day. Tahoser followed him timidly, and 
stood near the door, ready to leave at the slightest 
gesture, but Poéri signed to her to remain. 

She came forward timidly and knelt upon the mat. 

“You tell me, Hora, that you can play the lute. 
Take that instrument hanging upon the wall, strike its 
cords and sing me some old air, very sweet, very 
tender, and very slow. The sleep which comes to one 
cradled by music is full of lovely dreams.” 

The priest’s daughter took down the mandore, drew 
near the couch on which Poéri was stretched, leaned 
the head of the lute against the wooden bed-head hol- 
lowed out in the shape of a half-moon, stretched her 
arm to the end of the handle of the instrument, the 
body of which was pressed against her beating heart, 
let her hand flutter along the strings, and struck a few 
chords. Then she sang in a true, though somewhat 
trembling voice, an old Egyptian air, the vague sigh 
breathed by the ancestors and transmitted from genera- 
tion to generation, and in which recurred constantly 
one and the same phrase of a sweet and penetrating 


monotony. 


156 


doce chk deck debe cbcbe ch cheb cheek choot 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘‘In very truth,” said Poéri, turning his dark blue 
eyes upon the maid, “ you know rhythm as does a 
professional musician, and you might practise your art 
in the palaces of kings. But you give to your song a 
new expression; the air you are singing, one would 
think you are inventing it, and you impart to it a 
magical charm. Your voice is no longer that of 
mourning ; another woman seems to shine through 
you as the light shines from behind a veil. Who are 
your” 

“T am Hora,” replied Tahoser. ‘“‘ Have I not 
already told you my story? Only, I have washed 
from my face the dust of the road, I have smoothed 
out tne folds in my crushed gown and put a flower 
in my hair. If I am poor, that is no reason why I 
should be ugly, and the gods sometimes refuse beauty 
to the rich. But does it please you that I should 
go on?” 

“Yes. Repeat that air; it fascinates, benumbs me, 
it takes away my memory like a cup of nepenthe. 
- Repeat it until sleep and forgetfulness fall upon my 
eyelids.” 

Poéri’s eyes, fixed at first upon Tahoser, soon were 


half-closed, and then completely so. The maiden con- 


Joy 


aoe che che che de be che oe ecto cece cde bebe bec oe beable 


ore oe Fe ore OTe wre oF OTe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


tinued to strike the strings of the mandore, and sang 
more and more softly the refrain of her song. Poéri 
slept. She stopped and fanned him with a palm-leaf 
fan thrown on the table. 

Poéri was handsome, and sleep imparted to his pure 
features an indescribable expression of languor and ten- 
derness. His long eyelashes falling upon his cheeks 
_ seemed to conceal from him a celestial vision, and his 
beautiful, red, half-open lips trembled as if they were 
speaking mute words to an invisible being. After a 
long contemplation, emboldened by silence and solitude, 
Tahoser, forgetting herself, bent over the sleeper’s 
brow, kept back her breath, pressed her heart with her 
hand, and placed a timid, furtive, winged kiss upon it. 
Then she drew back ashamed and blushing. ‘The 
sleeper had faintly felt in his dream ‘Vahoser’s lips; he 
uttered a sigh and said in Hebrew, ‘Oh, Ra’hel, 
beloved Ra’hel!”’ 

Fortunately these words of an unknown tongue con- 
veyed no meaning to Tahoser, and she again took up 
the palm-leaf fan, hoping yet fearing that Poéri would — 


_awake.. 


cece oe ake che oe oe oh oe detec checbe cle lecdech oboe ch check 


THE ROMANCE OF 


whe obs obs ole obs eb obs obs 


Ce whe ore CWS CHO OFS CFO OTS OFS OFS CTO OID CTW CTO OHO OTE UFO OTe CTS OTS oO OTE Viw 


Vil 


HEN day dawned, Nofré, who slept on a 

\) \) cot at her mistress’s feet, was surprised at 

not hearing Tahoser call her as usual by 
clapping her hands. She rose on her elbow and saw 
that the bed was empty; yet the first beams of the 
sun, striking the frieze of the portico, were only now 
beginning to cast on the wall the shadow of the cap- 
itals and of the upper part of the shafts of the pillars. 
Usually Tahoser was not an early riser, and she rarely 
rose without the assistance of her women. Neither did 
she ever go out until after her hair had been dressed, 
and perfumed water had been poured over her lovely 
body, while she knelt, her hands crossed upon her 
bosom. 

Nofré, feeling uneasy, put on a transparent gown, 
slipped her feet into sandals of palm fibre, and set 
out in search of her mistress. She looked for her first 
under the portico of the two courts, thinking that, 
unable to sleep, Tahoser had perhaps gone to enjoy 
the coolness of dawn in the inner cloisters; but she 


was not there. 


£59 


LLEELEALELELEALALLLLLLA LES 


ore we 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


“ Tet me visit the garden,” said Nofré to herself; 
‘‘ perhaps she took a fancy to see the night dew sparkle 
on the leaves of the plants and to watch for once the 
awakening of the flowers.” 

Although she traversed the garden in every direc- 
tion, she found it absolutely untenanted. Nofré looked 
along every walk, under every arbour, under every arch, 
into every grove, but unsuccessfully. She entered 
the kiosk at the end of the arbour, but she did not find 
Tahoser; she hastened to the pond, in which her mis- 
tress might have taken a fancy to bathe, as she some- 
times did with her companions, upon the granite steps 
which led from the edge of the basin to the bottom of 
fine sand. The broad nymphcea-leaves floated on the 
surface, and did not appear to have been disturbed; 
the ducks, plunging their blue necks into the calm 
water, alone rippled it, and they saluted Nofré with 
joyous cries. 

The faithful maid began to feel seriously alarmed 3 
she roused the whole household. ‘The slaves and 
the maids emerged from their cells, and informed by 
Nofré of the strange disappearance of Tahoser, pro- 
ceeded to make most minute search. ‘They ascended 


the ‘terraces, rummaged every room, every corner, 


160 


che obo oe ob of 


aut ROMANCE OF AY Wiaus 


every place where she might possibly be. Nofré, in 
her agitation, even opened the boxes containing the 
dresses and the caskets holding the jewels, as if they 
could possibly have held her mistress. Unquestionably 
Tahoser was not within the dwelling. 

An old and consummately prudent servant bethought 
himself of examining the sand of the walks in search 
of the footprints of his young mistress. “The heavy 
bolts of the gate leading into the city were in place, 
and this proved that Tahoser had not gone out that 
way. It is true that Nofré had carelessly traversed 
every path, marking them with her sandals, but by 
bending close to the ground, old Souhem speedily 
noticed among Nofré’s footprints a slight imprint made 
by a narrow, dainty sole belonging to a much smaller 
foot than the maid’s. He followed this track, which 
led him, passing under the arbour, from the pylon in 
the court to the water gate. The bolts, as he pointed 
out to Nofré, had been drawn, and the two leaves of 
the door were held merely by their weight ; therefore 
Petamounoph’s daughter had gone out that way. 
Farther on the track was lost; the brick quay had 
preserved no trace; the boatman who had carried 


Tahoser across had not returned to his station; the 


II 161 


KLAKAEAL ELSPA et eeeetse 
THE ROMANCE OF. Als Mahe 


others were asleep, and when questioned replied that 
they had seen nothing. One, however, did report — 
that a woman, poorly dressed and belonging appar- 
ently to the lowest class, had been ferried over early 
to the other side of the river to the Memnonia quarter, 
no doubt to carry out some funeral rite. “This descrip- 
tion, which in no way tallied with the elegant ‘Tahoser, 
completely upset the suppositions of Nofré and 
Souhem. 

They returned to the house sad and disappointed. 
The men and women servants sat down on the 
ground in desolate attitudes, letting one of their hands 
hang down, its palm turned up, and placing the other 
on their head, all of them calling together in plaintive 
chorus, “ Woe! woe! woe! Our mistress is gone!” 

“By Oms, the dog of the lower regions, I shall 
find her,’ said old Souhem, “ even if I have to walk 
living to the very confines of the Western Region 
to which travel the dead. She was a kind mistress ; 
she gave us food in abundance, did not exact excessive 
labour, and caused us to be beaten only when we 
deserved it and in moderation. Her foot was not 
heavy on our bowed necks, and in her home a slave 


might believe himself free.” 


162 


HLEEA SPELLS tetetete tes 


Sallie — Soult — relies —Sonllind — Soci — Sacllan — Srl, — Solin — Soll rd —erllind —I 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


|? 


“ Woe! woe! woe!” repeated the men and women 
as they cast dust upon their heads. 

“© Alas! dear mistress, who knows where you are 
now?” said her faithful maid, whose tears were 
flowing. ‘¢ Perchance some enchanter compelled you 
to leave your palace through a spell in order to work 
his odious will on you. He will lacerate your fair 
body, will draw your heart out through a cut like that 
made by the dissectors, will throw your remains to 
the ferocious crocodiles, and on the day of reunion 
your mutilated soul will find shapeless remains only. 
You will not go to join, at the end of the passages 
of which the undertaker keeps the plan, the painted 
and gilded mummy of your father, the high-priest 
‘Petamounoph, in the funeral chamber which has been 
cut out for you.” 


> 


“Calm yourself, Nofré,” said old Souhem; “let us 
not despair too soon. It may be that Tahoser will 
soon return. She has no doubt yielded to some fancy 
which we cannot guess, and presently we shall see her 
come back, gay and smiling, holding aquatic flowers 
in her hands.” 

Wiping her eyes with the corner of her dress, the 


maid nodded assent. Souhem crouched down, bend- 


163 


wwe 


THE ROMANCE OF Al (-M Gaia 


che ob oe be abe abe oho abe obo abe abe cbe ce bela cbe bebe abe cbr ce obec 


ing his knees like those of the dog-faced figures which 
are roughly carved out of a square block of basalt, 
and pressing his temples between his dry hands, 
seemed to reflect deeply. His face of a reddish 
brown, his sunken eyes, his prominent jaws, the 
deeply wrinkled cheeks, his straight hair framing in 
his face like bristles, made him altogether like the 
monkey-faced gods. He was certainly not a god, but 
he looked very much like a monkey. 

The result of his meditations, anxiously awaited 
by Nofré, was thus expressed: “The daughter of 
Petamounoph is in love.” 

“ Who told you?” cried Nofré, who thought that 
she was the only one who could read her mistress’s 
heart. 

“No one; but Tahoser is very beautiful; she has 
already beheld sixteen times the rise and fall of the 
Nile. Sixteen is the number symbolical of voluptuous- 
ness; and for some time past she has been calling at 
unaccustomed hours her players on the harp, the lute, 
and the flute, like one who seeks to calm the agitation 
of her heart by music.” 

“You speak sensibly, and wisdom dwells in your 


old bald head. But how have you learned to know 


164 


deo ecko oe ace ch oe che cdec obec ce ooo ooo oe oh lace 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


women, — you who merely dig the earth in the garden 
and bear jars of water on your shoulders? ” 

The slave opened his lips with a silent smile and 
exhibited two rows of teeth fit to crush date-stones. 
The grin meant, “I have not always been old and 
a captive.” 

Enlightened by Souhem’s suggestion, Nofré imme- 
diately thought of the handsome Ahmosis, the oéris 
of the Pharaoh, who so often passed below the terrace, 
and who had looked so splendid on his war chariot 
in the triumphal procession. As she was in love 
with him herself, though she was not fully aware of 
it, she assumed that her mistress shared her feelings. 
She put on a somewhat heavier dress and repaired to 
the officer’s dwelling. It was there, she fancied, that 
Tahoser would certainly be found. 

The young officer was seated on a low seat at 
the end of the room. On the walls hung trophies of 
different weapons: the leather tunic covered with 
bronze plates on which was engraved the cartouche 
of the Pharaoh; the brazen poniard, with the jade 
handle open-worked to allow the fingers to pass 
through; the flat-edged battle-axe, the falchion with 
curved blade; the helmet with its double plume of 


165 


LTTE 


BLLAE ELLA LSS eee ett sees 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


ostrich-feathers ; the triangular bow; and the red- 
feathered arrows. His distinctive necklaces were 
placed upon pedestals, and open coffers showed booty 
taken from the enemy. 

When he saw Nofré, whom he knew well, standing 
on the threshold, he felt quick pleasure, his brown 
cheeks flushed, his muscles quivered, his heart beat 
high. He thought Nofré brought him a message 
from ‘Tahoser, although the priest’s daughter had never 
taken notice of his glances; but the man to whom 
the gods have imparted the gift of beauty easily fancies 
that all women fall in love with him. He rose and 
took a few steps towards Nofré, whose anxious glance 
examined the corners of the room to make sure 
whether Tahoser was there or not. 

“What brings you here, Nofré?”’ said Ahmosis, 
seeing that the young maid, full of her search, did not 
break silence. ‘Your mistress is well, I hope, for I 
think I saw her yesterday at the Pharaoh’s entry.” 

“You should know whether my mistress is well 
better than any one else,” replied Nofré; ‘for she has 
fled from her home without informing any one of her 
intentions. I could swear by Hathor that you know 


the refuge which she chose.” 


166 


che che oe obo o oh oe oe te baa cece fo cla foal ob a be eo foo 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘She has disappeared! — what are you talking 
about ?”’ cried Ahmosis, with a surprise that was un- 
questionably genuine. 


be) 


“¢T thought she loved you,” said Nofré, “and some- 
times the best-behaved maidens lose their heads. So 
she is not here?” 

“‘’The god Phrah, who sees everything, knows where 
she is, but not one of his beams, which end in hands, 
has fallen on her within these walls. Look for your- 
self and visit every room.” 

“© believe you, Ahmosis, and I must go; for if 
Tahoser had come, you could not conceal it from her 
faithful Nofré, who would have asked nothing better 
than to serve your loves. You are handsome; she is 
very rich and a virgin; the gods would have beheld 
your marriage with pleasure.” 

Nofré returned to the house more anxious and more 
upset than before. She feared that the servants might 
be suspected of having killed T'ahoser in order to seize 
on her riches, and that the judges would seek to make 
them confess under torture what they did not actually 
know. 

The Pharaoh, on his part, was also thinking of 
Tahoser. After having made the libations and the 


167 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


offerings required by frre ritual, he had seated himself 
in the inner court of the harem, and was sunk in 
thought, paying no attention to the gambols of his 
women, who, nude and crowned with flowers, were 
disporting themselves in the transparent waters of the 
piscina, splashing each other and .uttering shrill, sono- 
rous bursts of laughter, in order to attract the attention 
of the master, who had not made up his mind, contrary 
to his habit, which of them should be the favourite 
queen that week. 

It was a charming picture which these beautiful 
women presented; in a framework of shrubs and 
flowers, in the centre of the court, surrounded by 
columns painted in brilliant colours, in the clear light 
of an azure sky, across which flew from time to time 
an ibis with outstretched neck and trailing legs, their 
shapely bodies shone in the water like submerged 
statues of jasper. 

Amense and ‘Twea, weary of swimming, had 
emerged from the water, and kneeling on the edge of 
the basin, were spreading out to dry in the sun their 
thick black hair, the long locks of which made their 
white skins seem whiter still. A few last drops of 


water ran down their shining shoulders and their arms 


168 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


polished like jade. Maids rubbed them with aromatic 
oil and essences, while a young Ethiopian girl held out 
the calyx of a large flower so that they might breathe 
its perfume. 

It might have been thought that the artist who had 
carved the decorative bassi-relievi of the rooms in the 
harem had taken these graceful groups as models; 
but the Pharaoh could not have looked with a colder 
glance at the designs cut in the stone. Perched on 
the back of his armchair the tame monkey was eat- 
ing dates and cracking its jaws; against the master’s 
legs the tame cat. rubbed itself, arching its back ; 
the deformed dwarf pulled the monkey’s tail and the 
cat’s moustaches, making the one scratch and the 
other chatter, a performance which usually caused 
His Majesty to smile; but His Majesty was not in 
a smiling mood on that day. He put the cat aside, 
made the monkey get off the armchair, smote the 
dwarf on the head, and walked toward the granite 
apartments. 

Each of those rooms was formed of blocks of pro- 
digious size, and closed by stone gates which no human 
power could have forced unless the secret of opening 


them were known. Within these halls were kept the 


169 


= = = “ = = —— — = = = = = = = 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


riches of the Pharaoh, and the booty taken from con- 
quered nations. They held ingots of precious metals, 
crowns of gold and silver, neckplates and bracelets 
of cloisonné enamel, earrings which shone like the 
disc of Moui, necklaces of seven rows of cornelian, 
lapis-lazuli, red jasper, pearls, agates, sardonyx, and 
onyx; exquisitely chased anklets, belts, with plates 
engraved with hieroglyphs, rings with scarabzi set 
in them; quantities of fishes, crocodiles, and hearts 
stamped out of gold, serpents in enamel twisted on 
themselves; bronze vases, flagons of wavy alabaster, 
and of blue glass on which wound white spirals; cof- 
fers of enamelled ware; boxes of sandal wood of 
strange and chimerical forms; heaps of aromatic 
gums from all countries; blocks of ebony; precious 
stuffs so fine that a whole piece could have been pulled 
through a ring; white and black ostrich plumes, and 
others coloured in various ways; monstrously huge 
elephant’s-tusks, cups of gold, silver, gilded glass; 
statues marvellous both as regards the material and 
the workmanship. 

In every room the Pharaoh caused to be taken a 
litter-load borne by two robust slaves of Kousch and 


Scheto, and clapping his hands, he called Timopht, 


170 


checked eo ode de oe oe oe de cdede ee cb obec ope ce be cee 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


the servant who had followed Tahoser, and said to 
him, “ Have all these things taken to Tahoser, the 
daughter of the high-priest Petamounoph, from the 
Pharaoh.” 

Timopht placed himself at the head of the proces- 
sion, which crossed the Nile on a royal barge, and 
soon the slaves with their load reached Tahoser’s 
house. 

“For Tahoser, from the Pharaoh,” said ‘Timopht, 
_ knocking at the door. 

At the sight of those treasures Nofré nearly fainted, 
half with fear, half with amazement. She dreaded 
lest the King should put her to death on learning that 
the priest’s daughter was no longer there. 

‘“‘’Tahoser has gone,” said she, tremulously, ‘and I 
swear by the four sacred geese, Amset, Sis, Soumauts, 
and Kebhsniv, which fly to the four quarters of the 
wind, that I know not where she 1s.” 

hes Pharaoh), beloved: ‘of » Phré, favourite of 
Ammon Ra, has sent these gifts, —I cannot take 
them back. Keep them until Tahoser is found. You 
shall answer for them on your head. Have them put 
away in rooms and guarded by faithful servants,” 


replied the envoy of the King. 
171 


kbbee oh oe che he ofr tecdeche tected ead cele of bce 


ore, oe ole! ove 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


When Timopht returned to the palace and, pros- 
trate, his elbows close to his sides, his brow in the dust, 
said that Tahoser had vanished, the King became very 
wroth, and he struck the slab of the flooring so fiercely 
with his sceptre that the slab was split. 


AHOSER, nevertheless, scarce bestowed a 
thought on Nofré, her favourite maid, 
or on the anxiety which her absence 
would necessarily cause. “The beloved mistress had 
completely forgotten her beautiful home in Thebes, 
her servants, and her ornaments, —a most difficult 
and incredible thing in a woman. ‘The daughter 
of Petamounoph had not the least suspicion of the 
Pharaoh’s love for her; she had not observed’ the 
glance full of desire which had fallen upon her from 
the heights of that majesty which nothing on earth 
could move. Had she seen it, she would have de- 
posited the royal love as an offering, with all the 
flowers of her soul, at the feet of Poéri. 

While driving her spindle with her toe to make 
it ascend along the thread, — for this was the task 
which had been set her,—she followed with her 
glance every motion of the young Hebrew, her looks 
enveloped him like a caress. She silently enjoyed 
the happiness of remaining near him in the building 


to which he had given her access. 


73 


ale abe oe oe obs alls alle abe obs ole oe ollcbs be ele ob obs obs elle alls 


oe ove Ve ohS VIO CTO CHO O18 bs oly obs oe ofp obo ot 


THE ROMANCE OF A -MUMMY- 


If Poeri had turned towards her, he would no doubt 
have been struck by the moist brilliancy of her eyes, 
the sudden blushes which flushed her fair cheeks, 
the quick beating of her heart which might be guessed 
by the rising and falling of her bosom; but seated at a 
table, he bent over a leaf of papyrus on which, with 
the help of a reed, taking ink from a hollowed slab of 
alabaster, he inscribed accounts in demotic numbers. 

Did Poéri perceive the evident love of ‘Tahoser 
for him? Or for some secret reason, did he pretend 
not to perceive it? His manner towards her was 
gentle and kindly, but reserved, as if he sought to 
prevent or repel some importunate confession which 
it would have given him pain to reply to. And yet 
the sham Hora was very beautiful. Her charms, 
betrayed by the poverty of her dress, were all the 
more beautiful; and just as in the hottest hours of 
the day a luminous vapour is seen quivering upon 
the gleaming earth, so did an atmosphere of love 
shimmer around her. On her half-open lips her 
passion fluttered like a bird that seeks to take its 
flight; and softly, very softly, when she was sure 
that she would not be heard, she repeated like a 


monotonous cantilena, “ Poéri, I love you.” 


174 


che ke be oho che le oe oe oe che ce eae cdo ole che oof de cbc oe ele 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 

It was harvest time, and Poeri went out to oversee 
the workmen. ‘Tahoser, who could no more leave 
him than the shadow can leave the body, followed 
him timidly, fearing lest he should tell her to remain 
in the house; but the young man said to her in a 
voice marked by no accent of anger, — 

“Grief is lightened by the sight of the peaceful 
work of agriculture, and if some painful remembrance 
of vanished prosperity weighs down your soul, it will 
disappear at the sight of this joyous activity. These 
things must be novel to you, for your skin, which the 
sun has never kissed, your delicate feet, your slender 
hands, and the elegance with which you drape your- 
self in the piece of coarse stuff which serves you 
for a vestment, prove to me that you have always 
inhabited cities, and have lived in the midst of refine- 
ment and luxury. Come, then, and sit down, while 
still turning your spindle, under the shadow of that 
tree, where the harvesters have hung up, to keep 
it cool, the skin which holds their drink.” 

Tahoser obeyed and sat down under the tree, 
her arms crossed on her knees and her knees up to 
her chin. From the garden wall, the plain stretched 


to the foot of the Libyan chain like a yellow sea 


we 


che che ob a fe he oe be he cba che ctocda och cde cock cf coal ae 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
over which the least breath of air drove waves of 
gold. ‘The light was so intense that the golden tone 
of the grain whitened in places and became silvery. 
In the rich mud of the Nile the grain had grown 
strong, straight, and high like javelins, and never 
had a richer harvest, flaming and crackling with heat, 
been outspread in the sun. “The crop was abundant 
enough to fill up to the ceiling the range of vaulted 
granaries which rose near the cellars. 

The workmen had already been a long while at 
work, and here and there out of the waves of the 
corn showed their woolly or close-shaven , heads 
covered with pieces of white stuff, and their naked 
torsos the colour of baked brick. ‘They bent and rose 
with a regular motion, cutting the grain just below 
the ear, as regularly as if they had followed a line 
marked out by a cord. Behind them in the furrows 
walked the gleaners with esparto bags, in which they 
placed the harvested ears, and which they then carried 
on their shoulders, or suspended from a cross-bar and 
with the help of a companion, to grinding-mills situ- 
ated some distance apart. Sometimes the breathless 
harvesters stopped to take breath, and putting their 


sickles under their right arm drank a draught of 


176 


rhe obo obe of ae abe abe abe ahaa obec ae ok ob foo a oe obe abel 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
water. “Then they quickly resumed their work, fear- 
ing the foreman’s stick. 

The harvested grain was spread on the threshing- 
floor in layers evened with a pitchfork, and slightly 
higher on the edges on account of the additional 
basketfuls which were being poured on. 

Then Poéri signed to the ox-driver to bring on 
his animals. “They were superb oxen with long horns, 
curved like the head-dress of Isis, with high withers, 
deep dewlaps, clean, muscular limbs; the brand of 
the estate, stamped with a red-hot iron, showed upon 
their flanks. “They walked slowly, bearing a_hori- 
zontal yoke which bore equally upon the heads of 
the four. 

They were driven on to the threshing-floor; urged 
by the double-lashed whip, they began to trample 
in a circle, making the grain spring from the ear 
under their cloven hoofs; the sun shone on their 
lustrous coats, and the dust which they raised ascended 
to their nostrils, so that after going around about twenty 
times, they would lean one against another, and 
in spite of the hissing whip which lashed their flanks, 
they would unmistakably slacken their pace. To 


encourage them, the driver who followed them, hold- 


12 sr a | 


che ke che ake oe oe oe oe oe ae ob decease ce once feels obese 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


ing by the tail the nearest animal, began to sing in 
a joyous, quick rhythm the old ox-song: ‘“ Turn 
for yourselves, O oxen, turn for yourselves ; measures 
for you, and measures for your masters.” And the 
team, with new spirit, started on and disappeared 
in a cloud of yellow dust that sparkled like gold. 

The work of. the oxen done, came servants who, 
armed with wooden scoops, threw the grain into 
the air and let it fall to separate it from the straw, 
the awn, and the shell. The grain thus winnowed 
was put into bags, the numbers of which were noted 
by a scribe, and carried to the lofts, which were 
reached by ladders. 

‘Tahoser under the shadow of her tree enjoyed this 
animated and grandiose spectacle, and often her heed- 
less hand forgot to spin the thread. The day was 
waning, and already the sun, which had risen behind 
Thebes, had crossed the Nile and was sinking 
towards the Libyan chain, behind which its disc 
sets every evening. It was the hour when the cattle 
returned from the fields to the stable. She watched 
near Poéri the long pastoral procession. 

First was seen advancing the vast herd of oxen, 


some white, others red, some black with lighter 


178 


ch ob oe be abe aba abe oh ob abe aoa ce ele ob ce abe feof abel 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


spots, others piebald, others brindled. They were 
of all colours and all sizes. “They passed by, lift- 
ing up their lustrous mouths whence hung filaments 
of saliva, opening their great, gentle eyes; the more 
impatient, smelling the stables, half raised themselves 
for a moment and peered above the horned multitude, 
with which, as they fell, they were soon confounded ; 
the less skilful, outstripped by their companions, 
uttered long, plaintive bellows as if to protest. Near 
the oxen walked the herds with their whip and their 
rolled up cord. 

On arriving near Poéri they knelt down, and, with 
their elbows close to their sides, touched the ground 
with their lips as a mark of respect. Scribes wrote 
down the number of heads of cattle upon tablets. 

Behind the oxen came the asses, trotting along and 
kicking under the blows of the donkey drivers. These 
had smooth-shaven heads, and were dressed in a mere 
linen girdle, the end of which fell between their legs. 
The donkeys went past, shaking their long ears and 
trampling the ground with their little, hard hoofs. 
The donkey drivers performed the same genuflection 
as the ox-herds, and the scribes noted also the exact 


number of the animals. 


ake, 


AEALALALLELLEALAALE ALAA L LS 


we ee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Then it was the turn of the goats. ‘They arrived, 
headed by the he-goat, their broken and shrill voices 
trembling with pleasure; the goat-herds had much 
difficulty in restraining their high spirits and in bring- 
ing back to the main body the marauding ones which 
strayed away. ‘They were counted, like the oxen and 
the asses, and with the same ceremonial the goat-herds 
prostrated themselves at Poéri’s feet. 

The procession was closed by the geese, which, 
weary with walking on the road, balanced themselves 
_ on their web feet, flapped their wings noisily, stretched 
out their necks, and uttered hoarse cries. Their num- 
ber was taken, and the tablets handed to the steward 
of the domain. Long after the oxen, the asses, the 
goats, and the geese had gone in, a column of dust 
which the wind could not sweep away still rose slowly 
into the heavens. . 

“ Well, Hora,” said Poéri to Tahoser, “has the 
sight of the harvest and the flocks amused you? 
These are our pastoral pleasures. We have not 
here, as in Thebes, harpists and dancers; but agri- 
culture is holy; it is the nurse of man, and he who 
sows a grain of corn does a deed agreeable to the 


gods. Now come and take your meal with your 


180 


deckeckecle cb oe dec oh obe beech ecb fele fee ob ceo 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
companions. For my part, I am going back to the 
house to calculate how many bushels of wheat the ears 
have produced.” 

Tahoser put one hand to the ground and the other 
on her head as a mark of respectful assent, and with- 
drew. 

In the dining-hall laughed and chattered a number 
of young servants as they ate their onions and cakes 
of doora and dates. A small earthenware vase full of 
oil, in which dipped a wick, gave them light, — for 
night had fallen, — and cast a yellow light upon their 
brown cheeks and bodies which no garment veiled. 
Some were seated on ordinary wooden seats, others 
leaned against the wall with one leg drawn up. 
“Where does the master go like that every even- 


33 


ing?” said a little, sly-looking maid, as she peeled a 


pomegranate with pretty, monkey-like gestures. 


33 


“<The master goes where he pleases,”’ replied a tall 
slave, who was chewing the petals of a flower. ‘Is 
he to tell you what he does? It is not you, in any 
case, who will keep him here.” 

“Why not I as well as another?” answered the 
child, piqued. 

The tall slave shrugged her shoulders. 


181 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


“ Hora herself, who is fairer and more beautiful 
than any of us, could not manage it. Though he 
bears an Egyptian name and is in the service of the 
Pharaoh, he belongs to the barbarous race of Israel, 
and if he goes out at night, it is no doubt to be present 
at the sacrifices of children which the Hebrews per- 
form in desert places, where the owl hoots, the hyena | 
howls, and the adder hisses.” , 

Tahoser quietly left the room without a word, and 
concealed herself in the garden behind the mimosa 
bushes. After waiting two hours, she saw Poéri issue 
forth into the country. Light and silent as a shadow, 


she started to follow him. 


182 


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ib 
ie 
oe 
2 
FY 
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ie 
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ih 
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if 
= 
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Ix 


OERI, who was armed with a strong palm 
stick, walked towards the river along a cause- 
way built over a field of submerged papyrus 

which, leafy at their base, sent up on either hand their 
straight stalks six and eight cubits high, ending in a 
tuft of fibre and looking like the lances of an army in 
battle array. 

Holding in her breath and walking on tiptoe, Ta- 
hoser followed him on the narrow road. There was 
no moon that night, and the thick papyrus would in 
any case have been sufficient to conceal the young 
girl, who remained somewhat behind. 

An open space had to be crossed. The sham Hora 
let Poéri go on first, bent down, made herself as small 
as she could, and crawled along the ground. Next 
they entered a mimosa wood, and, concealed by the 
clumps of trees, Vahoser was able to proceed without 
having to take as many precautions. She was so close 
to Poéri, whom she feared to lose sight of in the dark- 
ness, that very often the branches that he pushed aside 


slapped her in the face; but she paid no attention to 


183 


ttetteebeetttteottttbdttddht 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


this. A feeling of burning jealousy drove her to 
seek the solution of the mystery, which she did not 
interpret as did the servants in the house. Not for 
one moment had she believed that the young Hebrew 
went out thus every night to perform any infamous 
and profane rite; she believed that a woman was at 
the bottom of these nocturnal excursions, and she 
wanted to know who her rival was. The cold kind- 
ness of Poéri had proved to her that his heart was 
already won; otherwise, how could he have remained 
insensible to charms famous throughout Thebes and 
the whole of Egypt? Would he have pretended not 
to understand a love that would have filled with pride 
o€ris, priests, temple scribes, and even princes of the 
royal blood? 

On reaching the river shore, Poéri descended a few 
steps cut out of the slope of the bank, and bent down 
as if he were casting off a rope. ‘Tahoser, lying flat 
on the summit of the bank, above which the top of her 
head alone showed, saw to her great despair that the 
mysterious stroller was casting off a light papyrus bark, 
narrow and long like a fish, and that he was making 
ready to cross the river. “The next moment he sprang 


into the boat, shoved off with his foot, and sculled 


184 


nb oh he of be oho obs abe rede che obra abel obec ade oft shook 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


oh she abe che abe obs oe ee oh ob bebe 


into the open with a single oar placed at the stern of 
the skiff. 

The poor girl was plunged in grief and despair: she 
was going to lose track of the secret which it was so 
important that she should learn. What was she to 
dof Retrace her steps, her heart a prey to suspicion 
and uncertainty, the worst of evils? She summoned 
all her courage and soon made up her mind. It 
was useless to think of looking for another boat. She 
let herself down the bank, drew off her dress in a 
twinkling, and fastened it in a roll upon her head; then 
she boldly plunged into the river, taking care not to 
splash. As supple as a water-snake, she stretched out 
her lovely arms over the dark waves in which quivered 
the reflection of the stars, and began to follow the boat 
at a distance. She swam superbly, for every day she 
practised with her women in the vast piscina in her 
palace, and no one cleaved the waters more skilfully 
than Tahoser. 

The current, less swift at this point, did not greatly 
hinder her, but in the centre of the stream she had to 
strike out in the boiling water and to swim faster in 
order to avoid being carried to leeward. Her breath 


came shorter and quicker, and yet she held it in lest 


185 


chee Be hs oe che fe he oe ede he cbecbe obo cde che do choco ence ee eee 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


the young Hebrew should hear her. Sometimes a 
higher wave lapped with its foam her half-open lips, 
wetted her hair, and even reached her dress rolled up 
in a bundle. Happily for her, — for her strength was ~ 
beginning to give way, — she soon found herself in 
stiller water. A bundle of reeds coming down the 
river touched her as it passed, and filled her with quick 
terror. The dark, green mass looked in the darkness 
like the back of a crocodile; T’ahoser thought she had 
felt the rough skin of the monster; but she recovered 
from her terror and said, as she swam on, ‘* What 
matter if the crocodiles eat me up, if Poéri loves me 
not (ee 

There was real danger, especially at night. During 
the day the constant crossing of boats and the work 
going on along the quays drove away the crocodiles, 
which went to shores less frequented by man to wal- 
low in the mud and to sun themselves; but at night 
they became bold again. 

Tahoser did not think of them; love is no calcula- 
tor, and even if she had thought of this form of peril, 
she would have braved it, timid though she was, and 
frightened by an obstinate butterfly that mistaking her 


for a flower kept fluttering around her. 


186 


RLEALAKALELALAAAALALAL AAPA LALA 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Suddenly the boat stopped, although the bank was 
still some distance away. Poéri, ceasing to scull, 
seemed to cast an uneasy glance around him. He had 
perceived the whitish spot made on the water by 
Tahoser’s rolled up dress. “Thinking she was dis- 
covered, the intrepid swimmer bravely dived, resolved 
not to come to the surface, even were she to drown, 
until Poéri’s suspicions had been dispelled. 

“could have sworn somebody was swimming 
behind me,” said Poéri, as he went on sculling again ; 
“but who would venture into the Nile at such a time 
as this? I must have been crazy. I mistook for a 
human head covered with linen a tuft of white reeds, 
or perhaps a mere flake of foam, for I can see nothing 
now.” 

When Tahoser, whose temples were beginning to 
beat violently, and who began to see red flashes in the 
dark waters of the river, rose hastily to fill her lungs 
with a long breath of air, the papyrus boat had resumed 
its confident way, and Poéri was handling the scull 
with the imperturbable phlegm of the allegorical per- 
sonages who row the barge of Maut on the bassi-relievi 
and the paintings of the temples. “The bank was only 


a few strokes off; the vast shadow of the pylons and 


187 


cheats beable oe che he che oh che chcbecbee ce eobe cde cece ce che cheek 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
the huge walls of the Northern Palace — the dark pile 
of which was faintly seen surmounted by the pyramid- 
ions of six obelisks through the violet blue of the night 
—spread immense and formidable over the river, and 
sheltered Tahoser, who could swim without fear of 
being noticed. 

Poéri landed a little below the palace and fastened 
his boat to a post so as to find it on his return. 
Then he took his palm stick and ascended the slope 
of the quay with a swift step. 

Poor Tahoser, almost worn out, clung with her 
stiffened hands to the first step of the stair, and with 
difficulty drew from the stream her dripping limbs, 
which the contact of the air made heavier as she sud- 
denly felt the fatigue. But the worst of her task was 
over. She climbed the steps, one hand pressed to her 
quick-beating heart, the other placed on her head to 
steady her rolled up and soaked dress. After having 
noticed the direction in which Poéri was walking, she 
sat down on top of the bank, untied her dress, and put 
iton. The contact of the wet stuff made her shudder 
slightly, yet the night air was soft and the southern 
breeze blew warm; but she was stiff and feverish, and 


her little teeth were ‘chattering. She summoned up 


188 


edhe oh oh hh he bbe cech be chabecheabechabeche bobo 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


her energy, and gliding close by the sloping walls 
of the giant buildings, she managed not to lose sight of 
the young Hebrew, who turned around the corner of 
the mighty brick walls of the palace and entered the 
streets of Thebes. 

After walking for some fifteen minutes, the palaces, 
the temples, the splendid dwellings vanished, and were 
replaced by humbler houses; granite, sandstone, and 
limestone were replaced by unbaked bricks and by clay 
worked with straw. Architectural design disappeared ; 
low huts showed around like blisters or warts upon 
lonely places, upon waste fields, and were changed by 
the darkness into monstrous shapes. Pieces of wood 
and moulded bricks arranged in heaps obstructed the 
way. Out of the silence rose strange, troubling 
sounds: an owl whirled through the air, lean dogs, 
raising their long, pointed noses, followed with plain- 
tive bay the erratic flight of a bat; scorpions and 
frightened reptiles scurrying by, made the dry grass 
rattle. 

“Could Harphre have spoken the truth?” thought 
Tahoser, impressed by the sinister aspect of the place. 
“Ts it possible that Poéri comes here to sacrifice a 


child to those barbarous gods who love blood and suf- 


189 


she os obs obs oe os bls cbr ob ols oe cbr cle ofr obs ale or obs ae olr e ofe abe of 


re Fe oVe oFO ote wre 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


fering? Never was any place better fitted for cruel 
nitese< 

Meanwhile, profiting by the shadow of corners, the 
ends of walls, the clumps of vegetation, and the un- 
evenness of the ground, she kept at the same distance 
from Poéri. 

“Even if I were to be present as an invisible wit- 
ness at some scene as frightful as a nightmare, to hear 
the cries of the victim, to see the priest, his hands red 
with blood, draw from the little body the smoking 
heart, I Phouitaes on to the end,” said ahoser to 
herself, as she saw the young Hebrew enter a hut built 
of clay, through the crevices of which shone a few 
rays of yellow light. 

When. Poéri was fairly within, the daughter of 
Petamounoph approached, though not a pebble cracked 
under her light step, nor a dog marked her presence 
by a bark. She went around the hut, pressing her 
hand to her heart and holding in her breath, and dis- 
covered, by seeing it shine against the dark ground 
of the clay wall, a crack wide enough to allow her 
glance to penetrate the interior. A small lamp lighted 
the room, which was less bare than might have been 


supposed from the outward appearance of the cabin. 


190 


ebb chk hbk bb bobbie ch heh beboh bebe 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


The smooth walls were as polished as stucco. On 
wooden pedestals, painted in various colours, were 
placed vases of gold and silver; jewels sparkled in 
half-open coffers; dishes of brilliant metal shone on 
the wall; and a nosegay of rare flowers bloomed in 
an enamelled jar in the centre of a small table. But 
it was not these details which interested ahoser, 
although the contrast of this concealed luxury with 
the external poverty of the dwelling had at first some- 
what surprised her. Her attention was irresistibly 
attracted by another object. 

On a low platform covered with matting was a 
marvellously beautiful woman of an unknown race. 
She was fairer than any of the maids of Egypt, as 
white as milk, as white as a lily, as white as the 
ewes which have just been washed. Her eyebrows 
were curved like ebony bows, and their points met at 
the root of the thin, aquiline nose, the nostrils of 
which were as rosy as the interior of a shell; her 
eyes were like doves’ eyes, bright and languorous ; 
her lips were like two bands of purple, and as they 
parted showed rows of pearls; her hair hung on 
either side of her rosy cheeks in black, lustrous locks 


like two bunches of ripe grapes. Earrings shimmered 


1gI 


che ake ake of ohe oe abe che oe abe abe re eee ch chee eee be eae 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


in her ears, and necklaces of golden plates inlaid with 
silver sparkled around a neck that was round and 
polished like an alabaster column. Her dress was 
peculiar. It consisted of a full tunic embroidered 
with stripes and symmetrical designs of various 
colours, falling from her shoulders half-way down her 
legs and leaving her arms free and bare. 

The young Hebrew sat down by her on the matting, 
and spoke to her words which ‘Tahoser could not 
understand, but the meaning of which she unfortu- 
nately guessed too well; for Poéri and Ra’hel spoke 
in the language of their country, so sweet to the 
exile and captive. Yet hope dies hard in the loving 
breast. 

“¢ Perhaps it is his sister,” said Tahoser, “and he 
goes to see her in secret, being unwilling that it should 
be known that he belongs to that enslaved race.” 

Then she put her eye to the crevice and listened 
with painful and intense attention to the harmonious 
and rhythmic language, every syllable of which held 
a secret which she would have given her life to learn, 
and which sounded in her ears vague, swift, and 
unmeaning like the wind in the leaves and the water 


on the bank. 


192 


kktebbhtteeeeteeoeeetttttte 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


>) 


‘‘She is very beautiful for a sister,” she murmured, 
as she cast a jealous glance upon the strange and 
charming face with its red lips and its pale complexion 
that was set off by ornaments of exotic shapes, and 
the beauty of which had something fatally mysterious 
about it. 

“Oh, Ra’hel, my beloved Ra’hel!”’ repeated Poéri 
often. 

‘Tahoser remembered having heard him whisper that 
name while she was fanning him in his sleep. 

** He thought of her even in his dreams. No doubt 
Ra’hel is her name.” And the poor child felt in her 
breast a sharp pang as if all the uraus snakes of the 
entablatures, all the royal asps of the Pharaonic crowns, 
had struck their venomous fangs in her heart. 

Ra’hel bowed her head on Poéri’s shoulder like a 
flower overladen with sunshine and love; the lips of 
the young man touched the hair of the lovely Jewess, 
who fell back slowly, yielding her brow and _half- 
closed eyes to his earnest and timid caress. ‘Their 
hands, which had sought each other, were now clasped 
and feverishly pressed together. 

“Oh, why did I not surprise him in some impious 


and mysterious ceremony, slaying with his own hands 


13 193 


ns 


che abe obe obs oe oh eh a ob abe erode cde eee ce fo oe of ce eae oe 


ere 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


a human victim, drinking its blood ina cup of black 
ware, rubbing his face with it? It seems to me that 
I should have suffered less than at the sight of that 
lovely woman whom he embraces so timidly,” mur- 
mured Tahoser in a faint voice as she sank on the 
ground in a corner by the hut. 

‘Twice she strove to rise, but she fell back on her 
knees. Darkness came over her, her limbs gave way, 
and she fell in a swoon. 


Meanwhile Poéri issued from the hut, giving a last 
kiss to Ra’hel. 


194 


kekeeeetetttettebtttbhbtbtts 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


KEAKKAALKLAAK SSE A Shs 
Xx 


HE Pharaoh, raging and anxious on hearing 

of the disappearance of ‘Tahoser, had given 
way to that desire for change which pos- 

sesses a heart tormented by an unsatisfied passion. 
To the deep grief of Amense, Hont-Reché, and 
Twea, his favourites, who had endeavoured to retain 
him in the Summer Palace by all the resources of 
feminine coquetry, he now inhabited the Northern 
Palace on the other side of the Nile. His fierce pre- 
occupation was irritated by the presence and the chat- 
ter of his women; they displeased him because they 
were not Tahoser. He now thought ugly those beau- 
ties who had seemed to him formerly so fair; their 
young, slender, graceful bodies, their voluptuous atti- 
tudes, their long eyes brightened by antimony and 
flashing with desire, their purple lips, white teeth, and 
languishing smiles, —- everything in them, even the 
perfume of their cool skin, as delicate as a bouquet 
of flowers or a box of scent, had become odious to 
him. He seemed to be angry with them for having 


loved them, and to be unable to understand how he 


195 


the hea he abe be aha a abe abe octets che cbo le chaebol fs obecl 


owe ove VYS eye o7e 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


could have been smitten by such vulgar charms. 
When ‘Twea touched his breast with the slender, 
pink finger of her little hand, shaking with emotion, 
as if to recall the remembrance of former familiarities ; 
when Hont-Reché placed before him the draught- 
board supported by two lions back to back, in. order 
to play a game; when Amense presented him with a 
lotus-flower with respectful, supplicating grace, he 
could scarcely refrain from striking them with his 
sceptre, and his royal eyes flashed with such disdain 
that the poor women who had ventured on such bold- 
ness, withdrew abashed, their eyes wet with tears, and 
leaned silently against the painted wall, trying by their 
motionlessness to appear to be part of the paintings on 
the frescoes. 

To avoid these scenes of tears and violence, he had 
withdrawn to the palace of Thebes, alone, taciturn, and 
sombre; and there, instead of remaining seated on 
his throne in the solemn attitude of the gods and of 
kings, who, being almighty, neither move nor make a 
gesture, he walked feverishly up and down through the 
vast halls. Strange was it to see that tall Pharaoh with 
imposing mien, as formidable as the granite colossi, his 


like, making the stone floors resound under his curved 


196 


che che ole abe ly oly ote che che che che bebe ote cheb chsh cha ob ok 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


sandals. When he passed, the terrified guards seemed 
to be petrified and to turn to stone. They remained 
breathless, and not even the double ostrich-feather in 
their headgear dared tremble. When he had passed, 
they scarce ventured to whisper, “‘ What is the matter 
to-day with the Pharaoh? ” 

Had he returned from his expedition a beaten man, 
he could not have been more morose and sombre. If, 
instead of having won ten victories, slain twenty 
thousand enemies, brought back two thousand virgins 
chosen from among the fairest, a hundred loads of gold- 
dust, a thousand loads of ebony and elephants’ tusks, 
without counting the rare products and the strange 
animals, —if, instead of all this, Pharaoh had seen his 
army cut to pieces, his war chariots overthrown and 
broken, if he had escaped alone from the rout under a 
shower of arrows, dusty, blood-covered, taking the 
reins from the hands of his driver dead by his side, — 
he certainly could not have appeared more gloomy and 
more desperate. After all, the land of Egypt produces 
soldiers in abundance; innumerable horses neigh and 
paw the ground in the palace stables; and workmen 
could soon bend wood, melt copper, sharpen brass. 


The fortune of war is changeable, but a disaster may 


197 


che foods choos ta de te oh abe abe elec feo foe rob cab ele 


Te OFS OTe OF ere ore ore 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


be atoned for. ‘To have, however, wished for a thing 
which did not at once come to him, to have met with 
an obstacle between his will and the carrying out of 
that will, to have hurled like a javelin a desire which 
had not struck its mark, — that was what amazed the 
Pharaoh who dwelt in the higher plane of almightiness. 
For one moment it occurred to him that he was only 
a man. 

So he wandered through the vast courts, down the 
avenues of giant pillars, passed under the mighty pylons, 
between the lofty monolithic obelisks and the colossi 
which gazed upon him with their great, frightened 
eyes. He. traversed the hypostyle hall and the maze 
of the granitic forest with its one hundred and sixty- 
two pillars tall and strong as towers. The figures of 
gods, of kings, and of symbolic beings painted on the 
walls seemed to fix upon him their great eyes, drawn 
in black upon their profile masks, the uraeus snakes to 
twist and swell their hoods, the bird-faced divinities to 
stretch out their necks, the globes to spread over the 
cornices their fluttering wings of stone. A strange, | 
fantastic life animated these curious figures, and peo- 
pled with living swarms the solitudes of the vast hall, 


which was as large as an ordinary palace. ‘The divin- 


198 


cba ae a oy che he oe oho he choca abe abe bach obec be ft soa 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


ities, the ancestors, the chimerical monsters, eternally 
motionless, were amazed to see the Pharaoh, ordinarily 
as calm as themselves, striding up and down as though 
he were a man of flesh, and not of porphyry and basalt. 

Weary of roaming about that mysterious forest of 
pillars that upbore a granite heaven, like a lion which 
seeks the track of its prey and scents with its wrinkled 
nose the moving sand of the desert, the Pharaoh as- 
cended one of the terraces of the palace, stretched him- 
self on a low couch, and sent for Timopht. 

Timopht appeared at once, and advanced from the 
top of the stairs to the Pharaoh, prostrating himself at 
every step. He dreaded the wrath of the master whose 
favour he had, for a moment, hoped he had gained. 
Would the skill he had shown in discovering the home 
of ‘Tahoser be a sufficient excuse for the crime of los- 
ing track of the lovely maid? 

Raising one knee and leaving the other bent, Timopht 
stretched out his arms with a supplicating gesture. 

“ O King, do not doom me to death or to be beaten 
beyond measure. ‘The beauteous Tahoser, the daugh- 
ter of Petamounoph, on whom your desire deigned to 
descend as the hawk swoops down upon the dove, will 


doubtless be found; and when, returned to her home, 


ake 


ere ow Te ote ove 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


she sees your magnificent gifts, her heart will be 
touched, and she will come of herself to take, among 
the women that dwell in your harem, the place which 
you will assign to her.” 

“Did you question her servants and her slaves?” 
said the King. ‘The stick loosens the most rebellious 
tongue, and suffering makes men and women say what 
they would otherwise hide.” 

“ Nofré and Souhem, her favourite maid and her 
oldest servant, told me that they had noticed the bolts 
of the garden gate drawn back, that probably their 
mistress had gone out that way. ‘The gate opens on 
the river, and the water does not preserve the track of 
boats.” | 

“¢ What did the boatmen of the Nile say?” 

““’They had seen nothing. One man alone said 
that a poorly dressed woman crossed the stream with 
the first light of day; but it could not be the beau- 
tiful and rich Tahoser, whose face you have yourself 
noticed, and who walks like a queen in her superb 
garments.” 

Timopht’s logic did not appear to convince the 
Pharaoh. He leaned his chin on his hand and re- 


flected for a few moments. Poor Timopht waited 


200 


che obe oe ofa oe oe oe ha oe oro efecbecde ooh ooo abe ob 
THE ROMANCE O MUMMY 


at 
> 


in silence, fearing an explosion of fury. The King’s 
lips moved as if he were speaking to himself. 

“© That mean dress was a disguise. Yes, it must 
have been. Thus disguised, she crossed to the other 
side of the river. “Timopht is a fool, who cannot see 
anything. I have a great mind to have him thrown to 
the crocodiles or beaten to death. But what could be 
her reason? A maid of high birth, the daughter of a 
high-priest, to escape thus from her palace, alone and 
without informing any one of her intention! It may be 
there is some love affair at the bottom of this mystery.” 

As this thought occurred to him, the Pharaoh’s face 
flushed red as if under the reflection of a fire; the 
blood had rushed from his heart to his face. The red- 
ness was followed by dreadful pallor; his eyebrows 
writhed like the urzus in his diadem, his mouth was 
contracted, he grated his teeth, and his face became so 
terrible that the terrified Timopht fell on his face upon 
the pavement as falls a dead man. 

But the Pharaoh resumed his coolness, his face re- 
gained its majestic, weary, placid look, and seeing that 
Timopht did not rise, he kicked him disdainfully. 

When Timopht, who already saw himself stretched 
on the funeral bed supported by jackal’s feet in the 


201 


clock abe nish ch ech ch cb cheb dechchobch checbek oh hob 


wwe oe 


THE ROMANCE OF AMO MENS 


Memnonia quarter, his side open, his stomach emptied, 
and himself ready to be plunged into a bath of pickie, 
—when Timopht raised himself, he dared not look up 
to the King, but remained crouched on his heels, a prey 
to the bitterest anguish. 

“Come, ‘Timopht!” said His Majesty, “rise 
up, run, and despatch emissaries on all sides; have 
temples, palaces, houses, villas, gardens, yea, the 
meanest of huts searched, and find Tahoser. Send 
chariots along every road; have the Nile traversed in 
every direction by boats; go yourself and ask those 
whom you meet if they have not seen such and such a 
woman. Violate the tombs, if she has taken refuge in 
the abodes of death, far within some passage or hypo- 
geum. Seek her out as. Isis sought her husband 
Osiris torn away by Typhon, and, dead or alive, bring 
her back, — or by the urzus of my pschent, by the 
lotus of my sceptre, you shall perish in hideous 
tortures.”’ 

. Timopht went off with the speed of a deer to carry 
out the orders of the Pharaoh, who, somewhat calmer, 
took one of those poses of tranquil grandeur which the 
sculptors love to give to the colossi set up at the gates 


of the temples and palaces, and calm as beseems those 


ZOOL, 


ibe hbk bbb bbb bot 


ore we wie 


Ma) UR OMRON CRY OF sAn MME MY 


whose sandals, covered with drawings of captives with 
bound elbows, rest upon the heads of nations, he 
waited. 

A roar as of thunder sounded around the palace, and 
had the sky not been of unchangeable, lapis-lazuli blue 
it might have been thought that a storm had_ burst 
unexpectedly. The sound was caused by the swiftly 
revolving wheels of the chariots galloping off in every 
direction, and shaking the very ground. Soon the 
Pharaoh perceived from the top of the terrace the boats 
cleaving the stream under the impulse of the rowers, and 
his messengers scattering on the other bank through the 
country. The Libyan chain, with its rosy light, and 
its sapphire blue shadows, bounded the horizon and 
formed a background to the giant buildings of 
Rameses, Amenhotep, and Amen Phtases; the pylons 
with their sloping angles, the walls with their spread- 
ing cornices, the colossi with their hands resting on 
their knees, stood out, gilded by the sunbeams, their 
size undiminished by distance. 

But the Pharaoh looked not at these proud edifices. 
Amid the clumps of palms and the cultivated fields, 
houses and painted kiosks rose here and there, standing 


out against the brilliant colours of the vegetation. 


203 


che che oh fe oe oe ee he che ce che che ole abe cbse feof 


ee wpe wire vro OTe OTe ove eve OTe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Under one of these roofs, on one of these ter- 
races, no doubt, Tahoser was hiding; and by some 
spell he wished he could raise them or make them 
transparent. 

Hours followed on hours. ‘The sun had sunk 
behind the mountains, casting its last rays on Thebes, 
and the messengers had not returned. ‘The Pharaoh 
preserved his motionless attitude. Night fell on the 
city, cool, calm, blue; the stars came out and twinkled 
in the deep azure. On the corner of the terrace the 
Pharaoh, silent, impassible, stood out dark like a basalt 
statue fixed upon the entablature. Several times the 
birds of night swept around his head ere settling on it, 
but terrified by his deep, slow breathing, they fled with 
startled wings. 

From the height where he sat, the King overlooked 
the city lying at his feet. Out of the mass of bluish 
shadow uprose the obelisks with their sharp pyramid- 
ions ; the pylons, giant doors traversed by rays; high 
cornices; the colossi rising shoulder-high above the 
sea of buildings; the propylaa; the pillars, with capi- 
tals swelled out like huge granite flowers ; the corners 
of temples and of palaces, brought out by a silvery 


touch of light. “The sacred pools spread out shimmering 


204 


iin Be ROMAN C EY OF SAG MOM MY 


like polished metal; the human-headed and the ram- 
headed sphinxes aligned along the avenues, stretched 
out their hind-quarters ; and the flat roofs were multi- 
plied infinitely, white under the moonlight, in masses 
cut here and there into great slices by the squares and 
the streets. Red points studded the darkness as if 
the stars had let sparks fall upon the earth. These 
were lamps still burning in the sleeping city. Still 
farther, between the less crowded buildings, faintly 
seen shafts of palm trees waved their fans of leaves; 
and beyond, the contours and the shapes were merged 
in a vaporous immensity, for even the eagle’s glance 
could not have reached the limits of Thebes; and on 
the other side old Hopi was flowing majestically 
towards the sea. 

Soaring in sight and thought over that vast city of 
which he was the absolute master, the Pharaoh reflected 
sadly on the limits set to human power, and his desire, 
like a raging vulture, gnawed at his heart. He said to 
himself: “ All these houses contain beings who at the 
sight of me bow their faces into the dust, to whom 
my will is the will of the gods. When I pass upon 
my golden car or in my litter borne by the oéris, 


virgins feel their bosoms swell as their long, timid 


205 


kKéeeeeteeeeettetetteetetes 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


glance follows me; the priests burn incense to me 
in their censers, the people wave palms and scatter 
flowers; the whistling of one of my arrows makes the 
nations tremble; and the walls of pylons huge as pre- 
cipitous mountains are scarce sufficient to record my 
victories; the quarries can scarce furnish granite 
enough for my colossal statues. Yet once, in my 
superb satiety, | form a wish, and that wish I cannot 
fulfil. ‘Timopht does not reappear. No doubt he has 
failed. Oh, Tahoser, Tahoser! How great is the hap- 
piness you will have to bestow on me to make up for 
this long waiting! ”’ 

Meanwhile the messengers, Timopht at their head, 
were visiting the houses, examining the roads, inquir- 
ing after the priest’s daughter, describing her to the 
travellers they met; but no one could answer them. 
The first messenger appeared on the terrace and an- 
nounced to the Pharaoh that T’ahoser could not be 
found. The Pharaoh stretched out his sceptre, and 
the messenger fell dead, in spite of the proverbial hard- 
ness of the Egyptian skull. A second came up; he 
stumbled against the body of his comrade stretched on 
the slabs; he trembled, for he saw that the Pharaoh 


was angry. 


206 


abe abe abs ole obs obs ole abe abe abe abs cba obe of ole obs oly obs obv abe obo obo obo ole 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


“What of Tahoser?’” said the Pharaoh, without 
changing his attitude. 

“QO Majesty! all trace of her is lost,’ replied the 
poor wretch, kneeling in the darkness before the black 
shadow, which was more like a statue of Osiris than a 
living king. 

The granite arm was outstretched from the motion- 
less torso, and the metal sceptre fell like a thunderbolt. 
The second messenger rolled on the ground by the side 
of the first. 

The third shared the same fate. 

Timopht, in the course of his search, reached the 
house of Poéri, who, having returned from his nocturnal 
excursion, had been amazed that morning at not seeing 
the sham Hora. MHarphre and the servants who, the 
night before, had supped with her, did not know what 
had become of her; her room had been found empty ; 
she had been sought for in vain through the gardens, 
the cellars, the granaries, and the washing-places. 

Poéri replied, when questioned by Timopht, that it 
was true that a young girl had presented herself at his 
gate in the supplicating posture of misfortune, implor- 
ing hospitality on her knees; that he had received her 
kindly ; had offered her food and shelter; but that she 


207 


choco cbse de eck ch deca cbch ab cb ch ch oh oh check 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


had left in a mysterious fashion for a reason which he 
could not fathom. In what direction had she gonef 
That he did not know. No doubt, having rested, she 
had continued on her way to some unknown place. 
She was beautiful, sad, wore a garment of common 
stuff, and appeared to be poor, Did the name of Hora 
which she had given stand for that of Tahoser? It 
was for Timopht to answer that question. 

Provided with this information, Timopht returned 
to the palace, and keeping well out of the reach of the 
Pharaoh’s sceptre, he repeated what he had learned. 

“© What did she go to Poéri’s for?’ said the Pharaoh 
to himself. ‘If Hora is really Tahoser, she loves 
Poéri. And yet, no! for she would not have fled thus, 
after having been received under his roof. I shall find 
her again, even if I have to upset the whole of Egypt 
from the Cataracts to the Delta.” 


208 


che obo obo obe abe abe oe ob aber feade toch abe lo cbeebnebocd ae abeee 


we 


coe oe ode oe oe oe oe oho che ae cle ce cde ce eee obec oe oe 


XI 


A’HEL, who from the threshold of the hut 
R was watching Poéri go away, thought she 
heard a faint sigh. She listened; some 
dogs were baying to the moon, an owl uttered its dole- 
ful hoot, and the crocodiles moaned between the reeds 
of the river, imitating the cry of a child in distress. 
The young Israelite was about to re-enter the hut 
when a more distinct moan, which could not be attrib- 
uted to the vague sounds of night, and which cer- 
tainly came from a human breast, again struck her ear. 
Fearing some ambush, she drew cautiously near the 
place whence came the sound, and close to the wall 
of the hut she perceived in the blue transparent dark- 
ness the shape of a body fallen to the ground. ‘The 
wet drapery outlined the limbs of the false Hora and 
betrayed her sex. 

Ravhel, seeing that she had to do with a fainting 
woman only, lost all fear and knelt by her, questioning 
the breathing of her lips and the beating of her heart ; 
the one was just expiring on the pale lips, the other 


scarce beat under the cold breasts. 


14 209 


the fe ake che oho che ho oe oho abe che debe che ole ob che che obec oh check 


CFO We WTO ere oTe WE Te 


THE | ROMAN GEO fF: cA: ¢ NERVE i 


Feeling the water which had soaked the stranger’s 
dress, Ra’hel thought at first that it was blood, and 
imagined that the woman must be the victim of 
a murder. In order to help her to better purpose, 
she called Thamar, her seryant, and the two women 
carried Tahoser into the hut. “They laid her upon 
the couch. Thamar held up a lamp, while Ra‘hel, 
bending over the girl, looked for the wound; but 
no red streak showed upon ‘he pallor of Tahoser, and 
her dress had no crimson stain. 

They stripped off her wet garment, and cast over 
her a piece of striped wool, the gentle warmth of 
which soon restored her suspended circulation. “Taho- | 
ser slowly opened her eyes and cast around her a terri- 
fied glance like that of a captured gazelle. It took 
her some time to regain control of her thoughts. 
She could not understand how she happened to be 
in that room, on the bed, where but a moment ago 
she had seen Poéri and the young Israelite seated side 
by side with clasped hands, speaking of love, while 
she, breathless, amazed, watched through the crack 
of the wall; but soon memory returned, and with 
it the feeling of her situation. 


The light fell full on Rav’hel’s face. Tahoser 


210 


OTe VO UTO BO WS OT? OO OTS vw 


TEP br RONMANG@IO «OR A MED MEM ¥ 


che oe fe oko ote be abe abe oho be ta abncle ole abana cbc soso ob 


studied it silently, grieved to find her so perfectly 
beautiful. In vain, with all the fierceness of feminine 
jealousy, she tried to note defects in her; she felt 
herself not vanquished, but equalled; Ra’hel was 
the Hebrew ideal, as T’ahoser was the Egyptian. 
Hard though it was to her loving heart, she was 
compelled to admit that Poéri’s love was justified and 
well bestowed. ‘The eyes with their full black eye- 
lashes, the beautiful nose, the red mouth with its 
dazzling smile, the long, elegant oval face, the arms, 
full near the shoulders and ending in childish hands, 
the round, plump neck which, as it turned, formed 
folds more beautiful than necklaces of gems,—all 
this, set off by a quaint, exotic dress, was sure to 
please. 

“© | made a great mistake,”’ said Tahoser to herself, 
‘‘when I presented myself to Poéri in the humble 
attitude of a suppliant, trusting to my charms over- 
praised by flatterers. Fool that I was! I acted as 
a soldier who should go to war without breastplate 
or weapons. If I had appeared in all my splendour, 
covered with jewels and enamels, standing on my 
golden car followed by my numerous slaves, I might 


perhaps have touched his fancy, if not his heart.” 


211 


chooks cbs ob oe abe alle che he abe fe cb che che obo che cbr be ofr ofc obo abe ste ohe 


eT ae ee ee ee ee ae One one Ove eve 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘‘ How do you feel now?” said Ra’hel in Egyptian 
to Tahoser; for by the outline of the face and the 
dressing of the hair, she had perceived that the maiden 
did not belong to the Israelitish race. The sound 
of her voice was sympathetic and sweet, and the 
foreign accent added oreater grace to it. 

‘T'ahoser was touched in spite of herself, and re- 
plied, “I feel better. Your kind care will soon have 
restored me.” 

‘Do not tire yourself with speaking,’ answered 
the Israelite, placing her hand on ‘ahoser’s lips. 
“Try to sleep, to regain your strength. Thamar 
and I will watch over you.” 

Her agitation, the swim across the Nile, the long 
walk through the poor quarters of ‘Thebes, had wearied 
out Petamounoph’s daughter; her delicate frame was. 
exhausted, and soon her long lashes closed, forming 
a dark semicircle upon her cheeks flushed with fever. 
Sleep came to her, but broken, restless, distorted by 
strange dreams, troubled by threatening hallucinations ; 
nervous shivers made the sleeper start, and broken 
words, replying to the dream dialogue, were spoken 
by the half-opened lips. 

Seated at the bed head, Ra’hel followed the changes 


242, 


deck oe cba oe oe be ecb ccna che che cle ee ooo oe oe oct 


ar CFS OFS OWE OTS CFO 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


in the features of Tahoser; troubled when she saw 
them contract and fill with grief, quieted again when 
the girl calmed down. ‘Thamar, crouching beside her 
mistress, was also watching the priest’s daughter, but 
her face expressed less kindliness. Coarse instincts 
showed in the wrinkles of her brow, pressed down 
by the broad band of the Hebrew head-dress ; her eyes, 
still bright in spite of her age, sparkled with curious 
questionings in their brown and wrinkled orbits; her 
bony nose, shining and curved like a vulture’s beak, 
seemed to scent out secrets; and her lips, slightly 
moving, appeared to be framing interrogations. 

She was very much concerned about this stranger 
picked up at the door of the hut. Whence came 
she? How did she happen to be there? What was 
her purpose? Who could she be? Such were the 
questions which Thamar asked herself, and to which, 
very regretfully, she could find no satisfactory replies. 
Besides, “Thamar, like all old women, was prejudiced 
against beauty, and in this repect ahoser proved 
very unpleasant to her. The faithful servant forgave 
beauty in her mistress only; for her good looks she 
considered as her property, and she was proud and 


jealous of them. 


213 


ere ee oFS OVS OFS OFS OTS STS woe 


THE ROMANCE 1OF ox MUMMY 


Seeing that Ra’hel kept silence, the old woman 
rose and sat down near her, and winking her eyes, 
the brown lids of which rose and fell like a bat’s 
wing, she whispered in the Hebrew tongue, “ Mistress, 
nothing good will come of this woman.” 

“Why do you think so, Thamar?” answered 
Ra’hel, in the same low tone and using the same 
language. 

‘It is strange,’ went on the suspicious Thamar, 
“that she should have fainted there, and not else- 
where.” 

‘She fell at the spot where weakness came upon her.” 

The old woman shook her head doubtfully. 

“Do you suppose,” said Poéri’s beloved, ‘that 
her faint was simulated? ‘The dissector might have 
cut her side with his sharp stone, so like a dead body 
did she seem. Her dull eyes, her pale lips, her 
pallid cheeks, her limp limbs, her skin as cold as that 
of the dead, — these things cannot be counterfeited.” 

‘© No, doubtless,’ replied —TThamar, “ although there 
are women clever enough to feign all these symptoms, 
for some reason or another, so skilfully as to deceive 
the most clear-sighted. I believe that the maiden had 


swooned, as a matter of fact.” 


214 


«¢<’Then what are you suspicious of ? ” 

““ How did she happen to be there in the middle of 
the night ; in this distant quarter inhabited only by the 
poor captives of our tribe whom the cruel Pharaoh em- 
ploys in making brick, and to whom he refuses the 
straw necessary to burn the bricks? What motive 
brought that Egyptian woman to our wretched huts? 
Why was her garment soaking wet, as if she had just 
emerged from a pool or from the river? ” 

“© ] know no more than you do,” replied Ra’hel. 

*¢Suppose she were a spy of our masters’,” said the 
old woman, whose fierce eyes were lighted up with 
hatred. ‘‘ Great events are preparing, who knows 
whether the alarm has not been given?” 

“© How could that young girl, ill as she is, hurt us? 
She is in our hands, weak, alone, ill. Besides, we can, 
at the least suspicious sign, keep her prisoner until the 
day of deliverance.” 

‘In any case, she is not to be trusted. See how 
delicate and soft are her hands!” 

And old Thamar raised one of the arms of the 
sleeping Tahoser. 

“In what respect can the fineness of her skin 


endanger us?” 


ys 


cho ooh le oe he oe oo ae ede eee aes obe ore ob eo 


wwe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


“©Oh, imprudent youth!”’ said Thamar; ‘oh, mad 
youth! which cannot see anything, which walks 
through life trustfully, without believing in ambushes, 
in brambles under the grass, in hot coals under the 
ashes, and which would gladly caress a viper, believing 
it to be only a snake. Open your eyes! That woman 
does not belong to the class of which she seems to be; 
her thumb has never been flattened on the thread of 
the spindle, and that little hand, softened by essences 
and pomades, has never worked. Her poverty is a. 
disguise.” 

Thamar’s words appeared to impress Ra’hel; she 
examined Tahoser more attentively. [he lamp shed 
upon her its trembling rays, and the delicate form of 
the priest’s daughter showed in the yellow light relaxed 
in sleep. The arm which Thamar had raised still 
rested upon the mantle of striped wool, showing 
whiter by contrast with the dark stuff; the wrist 
was circled with a bracelet of sandal wood, the com- 
monplace adornment of the coquetry of poverty; but 
if the ornament was rude and roughly chased, the flesh 
it covered seemed to have been washed in the perfumed 
bath of riches. “Then Ra’hel saw how beautiful was 


Tahoser, but the discovery excited no evil feeling in 


216 


shoe bee be ob oh oe oof decree ooo oe oe oe oe ee eee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


her heart; ‘Tahoser’s beauty softened, instead of 
irritating her as it did “IThamar; she could not believe 
that such perfection concealed a vile and _perfidious 
soul; and in this respect her youthful candour judged 
more correctly than the long experience of her maid. 

Day at last dawned, and Tahoser’s fever grew worse. 
She was delirious at times, and then would fall into a 
prolonged slumber. 

““If she were to die here,” said Thamar, “we should 
be accused of having killed her.”’ 

“She will not die,’ replied Ra’hel, putting a cup 
of cool water to the lips of the sick girl. 

“If she does, I shall throw her body by night into 
the Nile,” continued the obstinate Thamar, “and the 
crocodiles will undertake to make it disappear.” 

The day passed, the night came, and at the accus- 
tomed hour Poéri, having given the usual signal, ap- 
peared as he had done the night before on the threshold 
of the hut. 

Ra’hel came to meet him, her finger on her lips, and: 
signed to him to keep silence and to speak low, for 
Tahoser was sleeping. Poéri, whom Ra’hel led by the 
hand to the bed on which Tahoser rested, at once 


recognised the sham Hora, whose disappearance had 


207 


Se ee ee ee SS ee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


preoccupied him a good deal, especially since the visit 
of ‘Timopht, who was looking for her in his master’s 
name. 

Marked astonishment showed in his face as he rose, 
after having bent over the bed to make quite certain 
that the young girl who lay there was the one whom 
he had welcomed, for he could not understand how she 
happened to be in this place. His look of surprise 
smote Ra’hel to the heart. She stood in front of 
Poéri to read the truth in his eyes, placed her hands 
upon his shoulders, and fixing her glance upon him, 
said, in a dry, sharp voice which contrasted with her 
speech, usually as gentle as the cooing of a dove, — 

“© So you know her?” 

Thamar grinned with satisfaction; she was proud 
of her perspicacity, and almost glad to see her sus- 
picions as regarded the stranger partially justified. 

“ Yes,” replied Poéri, quietly. 

The bright eyes of the old woman sparkled with 
malicious curiosity. 

Ra’hel’s face resumed its expression of trustfulness ; 
she no longer doubted her lover. 

Poéri told her that a girl calling herself Hora had 


presented herself at his home as a suppliant; that he 


218 


checde oe oleae che do os oh ob cbecdecde echo obec eos ae foot 


Ce Wie Cie oe WO oe we wie ee oe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


had received her as any guest should be received; that 
the next day she had disappeared from among the 
maids, and that he could not understand how she 
happened to be there. He also added that the emis- 
saries of the Pharaoh were everywhere looking for 
‘Tahoser, the daughter of the high-priest Petamounoph, 
who had disappeared from her palace. 


> 


“You see that I was right, mistress,” said Thamar, 
triumphantly. ‘Hora and Tahoser are one and the 
same person.” 

Pe nae iiay oe, replied” Poeriy, “ but: there’ area 
number of difficulties which my reason does not ex- 
plain. First, why should Tahoser, if it is she, don 
this disguise? Next, by what miracle do I meet here 
the maiden whom [I left last night on the other bank 
of the Nile, and who certainly could not know whither 
I was going?” 

“No doubt she followed you,” said Ra’hel. 

“JT am quite sure that at that time there was no 
other boat on the river but mine.” 

“That is the reason her hair was so dripping-wet 
and her garments soaked. She must have swum across 
the Nile.’ 

“That may well be, — I thought for a moment that 


219 


ah abe obs obs abe oy oe ae abe oly cb abet ce obo oboe ofa elroy ob obo ode 


We wee Vee wre be obs ofr 


THE) ‘ROMAINCE (OF i MUMMY 


I had caught sight in the darkness of a human head 
above the waters.” 

“It was she, poor child!” said Ra’hel; ‘her 
fatigue and her fainting corroborate it, for after your 
departure I picked her up stretched senseless outside 
the hut.” 

“No doubt that is the way things occurred,’ said 
the young man. “I can see the acts, but I cannot 
understand the motive.” 

“¢ Let me explain it,” said Ra’hel, smiling, “ although 
I am but a poor, ignorant woman, and you are com- 
pared, as regards your vast knowledge, to the priests of 
Egypt who study night and day within sanctuaries 
covered with mystic hieroglyphs, the hidden meaning 
of which they alone can penetrate. But sometimes 
men, who are so busy with astronomy, music, and 
numbers, do not guess what goes on in a maiden’s 
heart. They can see a distant star in the heavens; 
they do not notice a love close to them. Hora—or 
rather, Tahoser, for it is she—took this disguise to 
penetrate into your house and to live near you; jealous, 
she glided in the shadow behind you; at the risk of 
being devoured by the crocodiles in the river she swam 


across the Nile. On arriving here she watched us 


a9 


abe oe ols abs oe of alle ole ole abr abr obrele eof ole obs le abe ob ole ole abe ol 


= — We G50 HO OHO OFS Cie wie eFe ave One OTF 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


through some crack in the wall, and was unable to bear 
the sight of our happiness. She loves you because 
you are very handsome, very strong, and very gentle. 
But I do not care, since you do not love her. Now 
do you understand ? ”’ 

A faint blush coloured Poéri’s cheeks; he feared lest 
Ra’hel were angry and spoke thus to entrap him, but 
her clear, pure glance betrayed no hidden thought. 
She was not angry with Tahoser for loving the man 
whom she loved herself. 

In her dreams Tahoser saw Poéri standing by her; 
ecstatic joy lighted up her features, and half raising 
herself, she seized the hand of the young man to bear 
it to her lips. 

‘“¢ Her lips are burning,” said Poéri, withdrawing his 
hand. 

“With love as much as with fever,”’ replied Ra’hel, 
“‘ but she is really ill. Suppose ‘Thamar were to fetch 
Mosche. He is wiser than the wise men and the 
wizards of Pharaoh, every one of whose wonders he 
imitates. He knows the secret properties of plants, and 
makes drinks of them which would bring the dead to 
life. He shall cure Tahoser, for I am not cruel 


enough to wish her to lose her life.” 


B21 


ch ba cece a choot cect ce cece 


abe sbe obo ote obs ado obe oe ob choo 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Thamar went off grumbling, and soon returned, fol- 
lowed by a very tall old man, whose majestic aspect 
inspired reverence. A long white beard fell down 
over his breast, and on either side of his brow two huge 
protuberances caught and retained the light. They 
looked like two horns or two beams. Under his thick 
eyebrows his eyes shone like fire. He looked, in spite 
of his simple dress, like a prophet or a god. 

Acquainted with the state of things by Poéri, he sat 
down by Tahoser’s couch, and said, as he stretched his 
hand over her: “In the name of the Mighty One 
beside whom all other gods are idols and demons, — 
though you do not belong to the elect of the Lord, 


— maiden, be cured!” 


222 


oh robo abe abe he ab abe able ober fob cele ce nce oe aboot 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY. 
chee oho che oe ofa be be be abe cbecde oct cda cba cte aoe ae eee 


4 AHE tall old man withdrew solemnly, Reaves 
as it were, a trail of light behind him. 
Tahoser, surprised at feeling her sickness 
suddenly leave her, cast her eyes around the room, and 
soon, wrapping herself in the blanket with which the 
young Israelite had covered her, she put her feet to the 
ground and sat up on the edge of the bed. Fatigue 
and fever had completely left her; she was as fresh as 
after a long rest, and her beauty shone in all its purity. 
Pushing back with her little hands the plaited masses 
of her hair behind her ears, she showed her face lighted 
up with love, as if she desired Poéri to read it; but 
seeing that he remained motionless near Ra’hel without 
encouraging her by a sign or a glance, she rose slowly, 
drew near the young Israelite girl, and threw her arms 
around her neck. She remained thus, her head in 
Ra’hel’s bosom, wetting it with her hot tears. Some- 
times a sob she could not repress shook her convulsively 
upon her riva.’s breast. 
The complete yielding up of herself, and her evident 


misery, touched Ra’hel. “Tahoser confessed herself 


223 


deabebe ded ch deck ch decked ch chk ch ch shah che cheek 


ye ore 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


beaten, and implored her pity by mute supplication, 
appealing to her womanly generosity. 

Ra’hel, much moved, kissed her and said, — 

‘¢ Dry your tears and be not so sorrowful. You love 
Poéri? Well, love him, and I shall not be jealous. 
Yacoub, a patriarch of our race, had two wives; one 
was called Ra’hel as I am, and the other Leah. 
Yacoub preferred Ra’hel, and yet Leah, who was not 
beautiful like you, lived happily with him.” 

Tahoser knelt at Ra’hel’s feet and kissed her hand. 
Ra’hel raised her and put her arm around her waist. 
They formed a charming group, these two women of 
different races, exhibiting, as they did, the characteristic 
beauty of each: Tahoser elegant, graceful, and slender, 
like a child that has grown too fast; Ra’hel dazzling, 
blooming, and superb in her precocious maturity. 

“‘’Tahoser,” said Poéri, “for that is your name, I 
think, — Tahoser, daughter of the high-priest Peta- 
mounoph?” ° 

The young girl nodded assent. 

“© How is it that you, who live in Thebes in a rich 
palace, surrounded by slaves, and whom the handsomest 
among the Egyptians desire, — how is it you have 


chosen to love me, a son of a race reduced to slavery, 


224 


kketbbeteeeetetetttbdttted 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


a stranger who does not share your religious beliefs and 
who is separated from you by so great a distance?” 

Ra’hel and Tahoser smiled, and the high-priest’s 
daughter replied, — 

“<’That is the very reason.” 

“ Although I enjoy the favour of the Pharaoh, 
although I am the steward of his domains and wear 
gilded horns in the festivals of agriculture, I cannot 
rise to you. In the eyes of the Egyptians | am but a 
slave, and you belong to the priestly caste, the highest 
and most venerated. If you love me —and I cannot 
doubt that you do —you must give up your rank.” 

‘¢ Have I not already become your servant? Hora 
kept nothing of ‘Tahoser, not even the enamelled 
collars and the transparent gauze calasiris; that is why 
you thought me ugly.” 

“ You will have to give-up your country and follow 
me to unknown regions, through the desert where 
burns the sun, where blows the fire-wind, where the 
moving sand tangles and effaces the paths, where no 
tree grows, where no well springs, through the lost 
valleys of death strewn with whitened bones that mark 
the way.” 

“¢ T shall go,” said Tahoser, quietly. 


15 22.5 


ft eb of Wo ave one abs abe obs be cba ale obo ofe abn abn ole obn abr ole obo obo obs 


ors ote we eye wre 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘That is not all,’ continued Poéri. ‘ Your gods 
are not mine, — your gods of brass, basalt, and granite, 
fashioned by the hand of man, your monstrous idols 
with heads of eagle, monkey, ibis, cow, jackal, and 
lion, which assume the faces of beasts as if they were 
troubled by the human face on which rests the reflec- 
tion of Jehovah. It is said, ‘Thou shalt worship 
neither stone nor wood nor metal.’ Within these 
temples cemented with the blood of oppressed races 
erin and crouch the hideous, foul demons which usurp 
the libations, the ‘offerings, and the sacrifices. One 
only God, infinite, eternal, formless, colourless, fills 
the immensity of the heavens which you people with 
a multitude of phantoms. Our God has created us; 
you have created your gods.” 

Although Tahoser was deeply in love with Poéri, 
his words affected her strangely, and she drew back in 
terror. “The daughter of the high-priest had been 
brought up to venerate the gods whom the young 
Hebrew was boldly blaspheming; she had offered up 
on their altars bouquets of flowers, and she had burned 
perfumes before their impassible images; amazed and 
delighted, she had walked through their temples splen- 
did with brilliant paintings. She had seen her father 


226 


bre CO VUACN CB (©. By Ag VEN Mey 


performing the mysterious rites; she had followed 
the procession of priests who bore the symbolic bari 
through the enormous pylons and the endless sphinx 
avenues; she had admired tremblingly the psychostasis 
where the trembling soul appears before Osiris armed 
with the whip and the pedum, and she had noted with 
a dreamy glance the frescoes representing the emblem- 
atic figures travelling towards the regions of the West. 
She could not thus yield up all her beliefs. She 
was silent for a few moments, hesitating between re- 
ligion and love. Love won the day, and she said: 

“You shall tell me of your God; I will try to 
understand him.” 

“It is well,’ said Poéri; ‘you shall be my wife. 
Meanwhile remain here, for the Pharaoh, no doubt in 
love with you, is having you sought everywhere by his 
emissaries. He will never discover you under this 
humble roof, and in a few days we shall be out of his 
power. But the night is waning and [ must depart.” 

Poéri went off, and the two young women, lying 
side by side on the soft bed, soon fell asleep, holding 
each other’s hands like two sisters. 

Thamar, who during the foregoing scene had re- 


mained crouched in her corner of the room, looking 


Nd 


checks ob ade a obs de cde de che de cheacbecbe cl feof doles oe doce 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
like a bat hanging from a corner by its talons, and had 
been muttering broken words and frowning, now un- 
folded her bony limbs, rose to her feet, and bending 
over the bed, listened to the breathing of the two 
sleepers. When the regularity of their breathing con- 
vinced her that they were sound asleep, she went 
towards the door, walking with infinite precaution. 
Once outside, she sprang with swift steps in the direc- 
tion of the Nile, shaking off the dogs who hung on 
with their teeth at the edge of her tunic, or dragging 
them through the dust until they let go; or she glared 
at them with such fierce eyes that they drew back with 
frightened yelps and let her pass by. 

She had soon passed the dangerous and deserted 
places inhabited at night by the members of the thieves’ 
association, and entered the wealthy quarter of Thebes. 
Three or four streets bordered with tall buildings, the 
shadows of which fell in great angles, led her to the 
outer wall of the palace, which was the object of her 
trip. ‘The difficulty was to enter, — no easy matter at 
that time of the night for an old Hebrew servant with 
dusty feet and shabby garments. 

She went to the main pylon, before which watched, 


stretched at length, fifty ram-headed sphinxes, arranged 


228 


ai3daos sty jo Mol 


B YUM siasuassaul 2914) OF" JUIN. JJOYS B ING Mos YoRIeYg UL], 


tnoidg *q as10a5y Aq ‘106s ‘WystuAdoy 


a 


-naczepthen asst 


ded cbeeck th ech debe cechecdecbecbe deca cbeebeck beck 


Te OK OTe OFS OHA OVO O70 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


in two lines like monsters ready to crush between their 
granite jaws the imprudent ones who should attempt to 
force a passage. [he sentinels stopped her, struck 
her roughly with the shafts of their javelins, and then 
asked her what she wished. 

““T want to see the Pharaoh,” replied the old 
woman, rubbing her back. 

‘That ’s right, — very nice! Waken for this witch 
the Pharaoh, favourite of Phré, beloved of Ammon Ra, 


| eed 


the destroyer of nations!” said the soldiers, laughing 
loudly. 

Thamar repeated obstinately, ““I want to see the 
Pharaoh at once.” 

“© A very good time you have chosen for it! The 
Pharaoh slew but a short time ago three messengers 
with a blow of his sceptre. He sits on his ter- 
race, motionless and sinister like Yyphon, the god of 
evil,” said a soldier who condescended to give this 
explanation. 

Ra’hel’s maid endeavoured to force her way through ; 
the javelins rattled on her head like hammers on an 
anvil. She began to yell like a bird plucked alive. 

An officer came out on hearing the tumult; the 


soldiers stopped beating Thamar. 


229 


THE ROMANCE OF (ACN yi 


“ What does this woman want?!” said the officer, 
“¢and why are you beating her in this way?” 

“¢] want to see the Pharaoh,” cried ‘Thamar, dragging 
herself to the knees of the officer. 

“Out of the question,” replied the latter; ‘ it is 
out of the question, — even if, instead of being a low 
wretch, you were one of the greatest personages in the 
kingdom.” 

“I know where is Tahoser,”’ whispered the old 
woman in his ear, laying stress on each syllable. 

On hearing this, the officer took Thamar by the 
hand, led her through the first pylon and through the 
avenue of pillars and the hypostyle hall into a second 
court, where rose the granite sanctuary, with its two 
outer columns with lotus capitals. There, calling 
Timopht, he handed Thamar over to him. 

Timopht led the servant to the terrace where sat the 
Pharaoh, gloomy and silent. 

“Keep well out of the reach of his sceptre,” was 
the advice Timopht gave to the Israelite. 

As soon as she perceived the King through the 
darkness, Thamar threw herself with her face to the 
stone flags, by the side of the bodies which had not 


yet been removed, and then sitting up, she said in a 


230 


$ebebettteettbtttttte tks 


TO WTO WO VHS CFO OV we 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


firm voice, “ O Pharaoh, do not slay me, I bring you 
good news.” | 


> 


“¢ Speak without fear,’ replied the King, whose fury 
had passed away. 

“‘’Tahoser, whom your messengers have sought in the 
four corners of the world, —I know where she is.” 

At the name of Tahoser, Pharaoh rose as if moved 
by a spring and stepped towards ‘Thamar, who was still 
kneeling. 

“If you speak the truth, you may take from my 
granite halls as much as you can lift of gold and 
precious stones.” 

‘] will put her in your hands, you may be sure,” 
said the old woman, with a strident laugh. 

What was the motive which had led Thamar to 
inform the Pharaoh of the retreat where the priest’s 
daughter was in hiding ? 

She wished to prevent a union which she disliked. 
She entertained towards the race of Egypt, a blind, fierce, 
unreasoning, almost bestial hatred, and the thought of 
breaking Tahoser’s heart delighted her. Once in the 
hands of the Pharaoh, Ra’hel’s rival would be unable 
to escape; the granite walls of the palace would keep 


their prey. 


231 


che abe docoade oleh cb fobs ofe abe be sels 


=~ aw VY Ve e. 


Ls ww AE AL CS OM OL OV 


eo 
we wre ee OTe oFe CTO ete ee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


“© Where is she?” said Pharaoh; “tell me the spot. 


A] 
ero ove wie ee vie 


I want to see her at once.” 

“Your Majesty, I alone can guide you. I know 
the windings of those loathsome quarters, where ‘the 
humblest of your servants would disdain to set foot 
Tahoser is there, in a clay and straw hut which nothing 
marks from the huts which surround it, amid the heaps 
of bricks which the Hebrews make for you outside the 
regular dwellings of the city.” 

“Very well, I will trust you. ‘Timopht, have a 
chariot brought around.” 

Timopht disappeared. Soon the wheels were heard 
rolling over the stones of the court, and the horses 
stamping and pawing as the equerries fastened them to 
the yoke. 

The Pharaoh came down, followed by ‘Thamar. 
He sprang up on the chariot, took the reins, and seeing 
that ‘Thamar hesitated, — 

“* Come, get up,” he said. 

He clucked his tongue, and the horses started. The 
awakened echoes gave back the sound of the wheels, 
which sounded like low thunder through the vast halls, 
in the midst of the night silence. “The hideous old 


woman, clinging with her bony fingers to the rim of 


232 


shea a fe be oe oo os oe ab ce abecke foe cde ool ce boo fe a a 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


the chariot by the side of the godlike Pharaoh, pre- 
sented a strange sight, which fortunately was seen by 
none but the stars twinkling in the deep blue heavens. 
She resembled one of the evil genii of mysterious face 
which accompany the guilty souls to Hades. 

‘Ts this the way?” said the Pharaoh to the woman 
at the forks of a street. 

“Yes,” replied Thamar, stretching her withered 
hand in the right direction. 

The horses, urged on by the whip, sprang forward, 
and the chariot leaped upon the stones with a noise 
of brass. 

Meanwhile Tahoser slept by the side of Ra’hel. A 
strange dream filled her sleep. She seemed to be ina 
temple of immense size. Huge columns of prodigious 
height upbore the blue ceiling studded with stars like 
the heavens; innumerable lines of hieroglyphs ascended 
and descended along the walls between the panels of 
symbolic frescoes painted in bright colours. All the 
gods of Egypt had met in this universal sanctuary, not 
as brass, basalt, or porphyry effigies, but as living 
shapes. In the first rank were seated the gods Knef, 
Buto, Phtah, Pan-Mendes, Hathor, Phré, Isis; then 


came the twelve celestial gods, — six male gods: Rem- 


53 


able obs obs obs obs ob oe obs obs obs ole abv cle obo ole obs obs ols abe ole abe ofr ofp ole 


Oe eve eye ore we vTe oTe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


pha, Pi-Zeous, Ertosi, Pi-Hermes, Imuthi; and six fe- 
male deities: the Moon, Ether, Fire, Air, Water, Earth. 
Behind these swarmed vaguely and indistinctly three 
hundred and sixty-five Decans, the familiar daemons 
of each day. Next appeared the terrestrial deities: 
the second Osiris, Haroeri, Typhon, the second Isis, 
Nephthys, the dog-headed Anubis, Thoth, Busiris, 
Bubastis, the great Serapis. Beyond, in the shade, 
were faintly seen idols in form of animals, — oxen, 
crocodiles, ibises, hippopotami. In the centre of the 
temple, in his open mummy-case, lay the high-priest 
Petamounoph, who, the bandages having been unwound 
from his face, gazed with an ironical air at that strange 
and mysterious assembly. He was dead, not living, 
and spoke, as it often happens in dreams; and he said 
to his daughter, ‘‘ Question them and ask them if they 
are gods.” 

And Tahoser proceeded to put to each one that 
question, and each and all replied: ‘We are only 
numbers, laws, forces, attributes, effuvia, and thoughts 
of God, but not one of us is the true God.” 

Then Poéri appeared on the threshold of the temple, 
and took T’ahoser by the hand and led her to a light so 


brilliant that in comparison with it the sun would have 


234 


THE ROMANCE OF A’MUMMY 


che cba ob oh oe oe oe oe oh oh dhe abecke do cdece cbe cba oo bee os doce 


seemed black, and in the centre of which blazed in a 
triangle words unknown to her. 

Meanwhile Pharaoh’s chariot flew over all obstacles, 
and the axles of the wheels rayed the walls in the 
narrow lanes. 

‘¢Pull in your horses,” said Thamar to the Pha- 
raoh; “the noise of the wheels in this solitude and 
silence might startle the fugitive, and she would again 
escape you.” 

The Pharaoh thought this advice sound, and in spite 
of his impatience made his horses slacken their impetu- 
ous pace. 

“There is the place,’ .said Thamar; “I left the 
door open. Go in. I shall look after the horses.” 

The king descended from the chariot, and bowing 
his head, entered the hut. “The lamp was still burn- 
ing, and shed its dying beams on the two sleeping 
girls. [he Pharaoh caught up Tahoser in his strong 
arms and walked towards the door of the hut. 

When the priest’s daughter awoke, and saw flaming 
near her face the shining face of the Pharaoh, she 
thought at first that it was one of the fancies of her 
dream transformed; but the air of night which struck 


her face soon restored her to the sense of reality. 


ae 


ado te teehee abe abe oe oe ofa che acdsee la obecde aol oe cto 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Mad with terror, she tried to scream, to call for help ; 
the cry remained in her throat,—and then, who 
would have helped her against the Pharaoh? 

With one bound the King sprang on to his chariot, 
threw the reins around his back, and pressing to his 
breast the half-dead ‘Tahoser, sent his coursers at their 
top speed towards the Northern Palace. 

Thamar glided like a serpent into the hut, crouched 
down in her accustomed place, and gazed with a look 
almost as tender as a mother’s on her dear Ra’hel, who 


was still sound asleep. 


2.36 


ddeoteobdeeb bbb bobbed hb bh 
PE ROMANCE: OF A’ WOU MM: 
abe obs obs obs obs obs obs obs obo abe be ebrcbe obo obs obs abv obs ofe ele obo obs ofle 


ee ete CFS eFe B18 CTO 


P AHE draught of cold air, due to the speed of 
the chariot, soon made Tahoser recover 
from her faint. Pressed and _ crushed 

against the breast of the Pharaoh, by his two stony 

arms, her heart had scarce room to beat, and the hard 
enamelled collars were making their mark on her 
heaving bosom. ‘The horses, whose reins the King 
slackened by bending towards the front of the car, 
rushed furiously forward, the wheels went round like 
whirlwinds, the brazen plates justled, the heated axles 
smoked. Tahoser, terrified, saw vaguely, as in a 
dream, flash to the right and left vast masses of build- 
ings, clumps of trees, palaces, temples, pylons, obe- 
lisks, colossi, which the night made more fantastic and 
terrible. What were the thoughts that filled her mind 
during that mad rush? She thought as little as thinks 

a dove, fluttering in the talons of a hawk which is 

carrying it away to its eyrie. Mute terror stupefied 

her, made her blood run cold and dulled her feelings. 

Her limbs hung limp; her will was relaxed like her 


muscles, and, had she not been held firmly in the 


apf 


LALA ALLAALLEAALALALALLAALLS 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


arms of the Pharaoh, she would have slipped and 
fallen in a heap on the bottom of the chariot like a 
piece of stuff which is let drop. ‘“Iwice she thought 
she felt upon her cheek a burning breath and two 
lips of fire; she did not attempt to turn away her 
head, terror had killed modesty in her. When the 
chariot struck violently against a stone, a dim instinct 
of self-preservation made her cling with her hands 
to the shoulder of the King and press closer to him; 
then she let herself go again and leaned with her 
whole weight, light though it was, upon those arms 
which held her. 

The chariot entered the avenue of sphinxes, at the 
end of which rose a giant pylon crowned with a cor- 
nice on which the symbolic globe displayed its wings ; 
the lessening darkness allowed the priest’s daughter to 
recognise the King’s palace. “Then despair filled her 
heart; she struggled, she strove to free herself from the 
embrace which held her close; she pressed her frail 
hands against the stony breast of the Pharaoh, stiffened 
out her arms, throwing herself back over the edge of 
the chariot. Her efforts were useless, her struggles 
were vain. Her ravisher brought her back to his 


breast with an irresistible, slow pressure, as if he would 


238 


LAKLKALAL Eee See eeeetekte dete 
irr ROMANCE OF “A NEU MIM'Y 


have driven her into it. She tried to scream; her lips 
were closed with a kiss. 

Meanwhile the horses in three or four strides 
reached the pylon, under which they passed at full 
gallop, glad to return to the stable, and the chariot 
rolled into the vast court. The servants hastened up 
and sprang to the heads of the horses, whose bits were 
white with foam. 

Tahoser cast a terrified glance around her. High 
brick walls formed a vast square enclosure in which 
rose on the east a palace, on the west a temple, be- 
tween two great pools, the piscine of the sacred 
crocodiles. The first rays of the sun, the orb of 
which was already rising behind the Arabian moun- 
tains, flushed with rosy light the top of the buildings, 
the lower portions of which were still plunged in 
bluish shadows. . 

There was no hope of flight. The buildings, though 
in no wise gloomy, had a look of irresistible strength, 
of absolute will, of eternal persistence: a world catas- 
trophe alone could have opened an issue through these 
thick walls, through these piles of hard sandstone. To 
overthrow the pylons built of fragments of mountains, 


the earth itself would have had to quake; even a con- 


witli 


cheats oe abe oe oe be be che che cece cbecbe cde bebe coe abe oot 


= = = = = = = = = = = = = re cto vie 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


flagration could only have licked with its fiery tongues 
those indestructible blocks. 

Poor Tahoser did not have at her command such 
violent means, and she was compelled to allow herself 
to be carried like a child by the Pharaoh, who had 
sprung from his chariot. 

Four high columns with palm-leaf capitals formed the 
propyleum of the palace into which the king entered, 
still pressing to his breast the daughter of Petamounoph. 
When he had passed through the door, he gently 
placed his burden on the ground, and seeing Tahoser 
stagger, he said to her: ‘ Be reassured. You rule the 
Pharaoh, and the Pharaoh rules the world.” 

These were the first words he had spoken to her. 

If love followed the dictates of reason, Tahoser 
would certainly have preferred the Pharaoh to Poéri. 
The King was endowed with supreme beauty. His 
great, clean, regular features seemed to be chiselled, 
and not the slightest imperfection could be detected in 
them. ‘The habit of command had given to his glance 
that penetrating gleam which makes divinities and kings 
so easily recognisable. His lips, one word from which 
would have changed the face of the world and the fate 


of nations, were of a purple red, like fresh blood upon 


240 


hobcbobh bobck bb bbb bch bab bbe 


CFs Fo oO CFS CFS GES OFS WHFS CFO VFO re wee ew 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


the blade of a sword, and when he smiled, they pos- 
sessed that grace of terrible things which nothing can 
resist. His tall, well proportioned, majestic figure 
presented the nobility of form admired in the temple 
statues; and when he appeared solemn and radiant, 
covered with gold, enamels, and gems, in the midst of 
the bluish vapour of the censers, he did not seem to 
belong to that frail race which from generation to gen- 
eration falls like leaves, and is stretched, sticky with 
bitumen, in the dark depths of the mummy pits. 

What was poor Poéri by the side of this demigod? 
Nevertheless, Tahoser loved him. 

The wise have long since given up attempting to 
explain the heart of woman. ‘They are masters of 
astronomy, astrology, and arithmetic; they know the 
origin of the world, and can tell where were the planets 
at the very moment of creation; they are sure that the 
moon was then in the constellation of Cancer, the sun 
in that of the Lion, Mercury in that of the Virgin, 
Venus in the Balance, Mars in the Scorpion, Jupiter in 
Sagittarius, Saturn in Capricorn; they trace on papyrus 
or granite the direction of the celestial ocean, which 
goes from the east to the west; they have summed up 


the number of stars strewn over the blue robe of the 


16 at 


che oh obs ob abe ahs oho abe hs abe echo hele a os bebe ce oft slog 


ere UFO oFe CFO CTO we 


THE ROMANCE OFA‘ MOUMMY 


Goddess Neith, and make the sun travel in the lower or 
the superior hemisphere with the twelve diurnal and the 
twelve nocturnal baris under the conduct of the hawk- 
headed pilot and of Neb Wa, the Lady of the Bark; 
they know that in the second half of the month of Tobi, 
Orion influences the left ear, and Sirius the heart; 
but they are absolutely ignorant why a woman pre- 
fers one man to another, a wretched Israelite to an 
illustrious Pharaoh. 

After having traversed several halls with Tahoser, 
whom he led by the hand, the King sat down on a 
seat in the shape of a throne in a superbly decorated 
room. 

Golden stars gleamed in the blue ceiling, and against 
the pillars which supported the cornice were placed the 
statues of kings wearing the pschent, their legs merging 
into the block of stone and their arms crossed on their 
chest, looking into the room with frightful intensity out 
of their black-lined eyes. Between every two pillars 
burned a lamp placed upon a pedestal, and on the base 
of the walls was represented a sort of ethnographic 
procession: the nations of the four quarters of the 
world were represented there with their particular faces 


and their particular dress. 


242 


LLALAALAALEALALEALLEAALALE 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


At the head of the series, guided by Horus the shep- 
herd of the nations, walked the man of men, the 
Egyptian, the Rot’en’no with a gentle face, slightly 
aquiline nose, plaited hair, and his dark red skin 
brought out by the whiteness of the loin-cloth; next 
came the negro or Nahasi, with his black skin, thick 
lips, protruding cheekbones and woolly hair; then the 
Asiatic or Namou, with yellow flesh-colour, strongly 
aquiline nose, thick black beard cut to a point, wearing 
a striped skirt fringed with tufts; then the European 
or Tamhou, the least civilised of all, differing from the 
others by his white complexion, his red beard and hair, 
his blue eyes, an undressed ox-skin cast over his shoul- 
der, and his arms and legs tattooed. The other panels 
were filled with various subjects, scenes of war and 
triumph and hieroglyphic inscriptions: 

In the centre of the room, on a table supported by 
prisoners bound by the elbows, so skilfully carved 
that they seemed to live and suffer, bloomed a vast 
bouquet of flowers whose sweet scent perfumed the 
atmosphere. 

So in this vast hall, surrounded by the effigies of his 
ancestors, all things spoke and sang of the glory of the 
Pharaoh. The nations of the world walked behind 


243 


oh cba he oe aba abe abe abe abe oo cbecde feo oe ob ce eee abe eos 
THE ROMANCE FA MUMMY 


Egypt and acknowledged her supremacy, and he gov- 
erned Egypt. Yet the daughter of Petamounoph, far 
from being dazzled by this splendour, thought of the 
rustic villa, of Poéri, and especially of the mean hut of 
mud and straw in the Hebrew quarter, where she had 
left Ra’hel,— Ra’hel, from henceforward the happy 
and only spouse of the young Hebrew. 

The Pharaoh held the tips of the fingers of Tahoser, 
who stood before him, and he fixed upon her his hawk 
eyes, the eyelids of which never moved. The young 
girl had no other garment than the drapery substituted 
by Ra’hel for the dress which had been soaked during 
the swim across the Nile, but her beauty was in no 
wise impaired. She remained thus, half nude, holding 
with one hand the coarse stuff which slipped, and the 
whole upper portion of her beautiful body appeared in 
its golden fairness. When she was adorned with her 
jewels, one was tempted to regret that any part of her 
form should be concealed by her necklaces, her brace- 
lets, and her belts of gold or of gems; but on seeing 
her thus devoid of all ornament, admiration was satis- 
fied, or rather exalted. Certainly many very beautiful 
women had entered the Pharaoh’s harem, but not one 


of them comparable to Tahoser; and the eyes of the 


244 


che hoo oe oh oh ecb ah ch bcbahcbectechcbecds decloek oh ahed 


JF CTO WTO WHO OX ee ve 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


King flashed such burning glances that, unable to 
bear their brilliancy, she was obliged to cast down 
her eyes. : 

In her heart, Tahoser was proud of having excited 
love in the Pharaoh; for who is the woman, however 
perfect she may be, who has not some vanity. Yet she 
would have preferred to follow the young Hebrew into 
the desert. The King terrified her, she felt herself 
dazzled by the splendour of his face, and her limbs 
gave way under her. 

The Pharaoh noticed her emotion, and made her sit 
down at his feet on a red cushion adorned with tufts. 

“Oh, Tahoser,” he said, kissing her hair, “I love 
you. When I saw you from the top of my triumphal 
palanquin, borne higher than the heads of men by the 
generals, an unknown feeling entered into my soul. I, 
whose every desire is forestalled, desired something ; 
I understood that I was not everything. Until then I 
had lived solitary in my almightiness, in the depths of 
my vast palaces, surrounded by mere shadows which 
called themselves women, and who had no more effect 
upon me than the painted figures in the frescoes. [I 
heard in the distance, muttering and complaining low, 


the nations upon whose heads I wipe my sandals or 


24.5 


seo leo oe he abe oh ae cde ctecbe cde cde eae ob oboe ob oo 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


which I lift by their hair, as I am represented doing on 
the symbolical bassi-relievi of the palaces, and in my 
cold breast, as strong as that of a. basalt god, I never 
heard the beat of my own heart. It seemed to me that 
there was nowhere on earth a being like myself, a 
being who could move me. In vain I brought back 
from my expeditions into foreign lands choice virgins 
and women famous for their beauty in their own coun- 
try; I cast them aside like flowers, after having breathed 
their scent fora moment. None inspired me with a 
desire to see her again. When they were present, I 
scarce glanced at them; when they were absent, I im- 
mediately forgot them. “Iwea, Taia, Amense, Hont- 
Reché, whom I have kept to avoid the disgust of 
having to find others who the next day would have 
been as indifferent as themselves, have never been, 
when in my arms, aught but vain phantoms, perfumed 
and graceful forms, beings of another race with whom 
my nature could not mingle any more than the leopard 
can mate with the gazelle, the dweller in the air with 
the dweller in the waters. I had come to think that, 
placed by the gods apart from and above all mortals, 
I was never to share either their pains or their joys. 


Fearful weariness, like that which no doubt tires the 


246 


che hoch ah oe oh oh a of abe a che che och ce oo eel fe ste 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


mummies, who, wrapped up in their bands, wait in 
their caves in the depths of the hypogea until the 
soul shall have finished the cycle of migrations, — a 
fearful weariness had fallen upon me on my throne ; 
for I often remained with my hands on my knees 
like a granite colossus, thinking of the impossible, 
the infinite, the eternal. How many a time have I 
thought of raising the veil of Isis, at the risk of fall- 
ing blasted at the feet of the goddess. Perhaps, I 
said to myself, that mysterious face is the one I have 
been dreaming of, the one which is to inspire me 
with love. If earth refuses me happiness, I shall 
climb to heaven. But I saw you; I felt a strange, 
unaccustomed sensation; I understood that there ex- 
isted outside myself a being necessary, imperious, and 
fatal to me, whom I could not live without, and who 
possessed the power of making me unhappy. I was 
a king, almost a god, and you, O Tahoser, have made 
of me a man.” 

Never, perhaps, had the Pharaoh uttered so long a 
speech; usually a word, a gesture, a motion of the 
eye sufficed to manifest his will, which was imme- 
diately divined by a thousand attentive, restless eyes ; 


performance followed his thought, as the lightning 


247 


LAAALAALLALAALAAAALLALA ALES 
THE ROMANCE WOF AY Magen ii 


follows the thunder-clap. But with desire he seemed 
to have given up his granitic majesty; he spoke and 
explained himself like a mortal. 

Tahoser was a prey to singular emotion. However 
much she felt the honour of having inspired love in 
the man preferred of Phré, in the favoured of Ammon 
Ra, the destroyer of nations, in the terrifying, solemn 
and superb being upon whom she scarce dared to 
gaze, she felt no sympathy for him, and the idea 
of belonging to him filled her with terror and repul- 
sion. “To the Pharaoh who had carried off her body 
she could not give her soul, which had remained with 
Poéri and Ra’hel; and as the King appeared to await 
a reply, she said, — 

““ How is it, O King, that amid all the maids of 
Egypt your glance should have fallen on me, —on me 
whom so many others surpass in beauty, in talent, in 
gifts of all sorts? How is it that in the midst of 
clumps of white, blue, and rose lotus, with open corol- 
las, with delicate scent, you have chosen the modest 
blade of grass which nothing marks?” 

“[ know not, but I know that you alone exist 
in this world for me, and that I shall make kings’ 


daughters your servants.” 


248 


OFS WINS CHO CTS STO CVE ee OVO OTe STO CVO BTS UFO CFE OFS OO OWE UTS OTS OF CO Te v7 


ene OV Be OR OA NECN MY 


sb ob oe abe abe oe oe oe oe cbr cdecbe ooo oe obec feo eof loaf 


‘¢ But suppose I do not love you?” said Tahoser, 
timidly. 

‘What care I, if I love you,” replied the Pharaoh. 
‘Have not the most beautiful women in the world 
thrown themselves down upon my threshold weep- 
ing and moaning, tearing their cheeks, beating their 
breasts, plucking out their hair, and have they not 
‘died imploring a glance of love which never fell 
upon them? Never has passion in any one made 
my heart of brass beat within my stony breast. Re- 
sist me, hate if you will,— you will only be more 
charming; for the first time an obstacle will have 
come in the way of my will, and I shall know how 
to overcome it.” 

‘< But suppose I love another ?”’ continued Tahoser, 
more boldly. 

At this suggestion the eyebrows of the Pharaoh 
were bent; he violently bit his lower lip, in which 
his teeth left white marks, and he pressed to the 
point of hurting her the fingers of the maid which 
he still held. Then he cooled down again, and said 
in a low, deep voice, — 

‘©When you shall have lived in this palace, in the 


midst of these splendours, surrounded by the atmos- 


249 


de che eae oe te ade oe os oe oe cde cece cde ode cree abe eo 


we we wre 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


phere of my love, you will forget everything as does 
he who eats nepenthe. Your past life will appear 
to you like a dream, your former feelings will vanish 
as incense upon the coals of the censer. “The woman 
who is loved by the King no longer remembers men. 
Go, come; accustom yourself to Pharaonic magnif- 
cence; help yourself as you please to my treasures ; 
make gold flow, heap up gems; order, make, unmake, . 
raise, destroy; be my mistress, my wife, my queen. 
I give you Egypt with its priests, its armies, its toilers, 
its numberless population, its palaces, its temples and 
cities. Crumple it up as you would crumple up 
gauze, —I will win other kingdoms for you, larger, 
fairer, and richer. If the world is not sufficient, I 
will conquer planets for you, I will dethrone the 
gods. You are she whom I love; ‘Tahoser, the 


daughter of Petamounoph is no more.” 


250 


HEN Ra’hel awoke, she was amazed not 
to find Tahoser by her side, and cast 
her glance around the room, thinking the 

Egyptian had already risen. Crouching in a corner, 
her arms crossed on her knees, her head upon her 
arms, which formed a bony pillow, Thamar slept, — 
or rather, pretended to sleep; for through the long 
locks of her disordered hair which fell to the ground, 
might have been seen her eyes as yellow as those 
of an owl, gleaming with malicious joy and satisfied 
wickedness. 

“© Thamar,” cried Ra’hel, ‘“‘ what has become of 
Tahoser ? ” 

The old woman, as if startled into wakefulness by 
the voice of her mistress, slowly uncoiled her spider- 
like limbs, rose to her feet, rubbed several times her 
brown eyelids with the back of her left hand, yellower 
than that of a mummy, and said with a well assumed 
air of astonishment: ‘Is she not there?” | 

“No,” replied Ra’hel; “and did I not yet see 
her place hollowed out on the bed by the side of 


201 


che be obs obs obs oe oh abe oho he rade obec oe abe cael co obec 


ove 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


my own, and hanging on that peg the gown which 
she threw off, I could believe that the strange 
events of the past night were but an illusion and a 
dream.” 

Though she was perfectly well aware of the manner 
of Tahoser’s disappearance, ‘hamar raised a_ piece 
of the drapery stretched in the corner of the room, 
as if the Egyptian might have been concealed behind 
it. She opened the door of the hut and standing on 
the threshold minutely explored the neighbourhood 
with her glance; then turning towards the interior, ~ 
she signed negatively to her mistress. 

‘‘It is strange,” said Ra’hel, thoughtfully. 

“¢ Mistress,”’ said the old woman, drawing near the 
Israelite, with a gentle, petting tone, “you know that 
I disliked the foreign woman.” 

“You dislike every one, Thamar,” replied Ra’hel, 
smiling. 


b 


‘‘ Except you, mistress,’ answered the old woman, 
placing to her lips one of the young woman’s hands. 
“| know it. You are devoted to me.” 
“T never had any children, and sometimes I fancy 
that I am your mother.” 


“© Good Thamar,” said Ra’hel, moved. 


252 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


> 


‘© Was I wrong,” continued Thamar, “to consider 
her appearance so strange? Her disappearance ex- 
plains it. She said she was Tahoser, the daughter of 
Petamounoph. She was nothing but a fiend which 
took that form to seduce and tempt a child of Israel. 
Did you see how troubled she was when Poéri spoke 
against the idols of wood, stone, and metal, and how 
dificult it was for her to say, ‘I will try to believe in 
your God’? It seemed as though the words burnt 
her lips like hot coals.” 

“<The tears which fell upon my breast were genuine 
tears, —- a woman’s tears,” said Ra’hel. 

“© Crocodiles weep when they want, and hyenas 


> 


laugh to attract their prey,” continued the old woman. 
‘The evil spirits which prowl at night in the stones 
and ruins know many a trick and play every part.” 

*¢So, according to you, poor Tahoser was nothing 
but a phantom raised up by hell?” 

‘¢ Unquestionably,” replied Thamar. “Is it likely 
that the daughter of the priest Petamounoph would 
have fallen in love with Poéri and preferred him to 
the Pharaoh, who, it is said, loves her?” 

Ra’hel, who did not admit that any one in the world 


was superior to Poéri, did not think this unlikely. 


253 


ktbebetetbtttbttbt tbh be 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘If she loved him as much as she said she did, why 
did she run off when, with your consent, he accepted 
her as his second wife? It was the condition that 
she must renounce the false gods and adore Jehovah 
which put to flight that devil in disguise.” 

‘¢ In any case, that devil had a very sweet vcice and 
very tender eyes.” 

At bottom Ra’hel was perhaps not greatly dissatis- 
fied with the disappearance of Tahoser; she thus kept 
wholly to herself the heart which she had been willing 
to share, and yet she had the merit of the sacrifice she 
had made. 

Under pretext of going to the market, Thamar 
went out and started for the King’s palace, her cupidity 
not having allowed her to forget his promise. She 
had provided herself with a great bag of coarse cloth 
which she proposed to fill with gold. 

When she appeared at the palace gate the soldiers 
did not beat her as they had done the first day. She 
enjoyed the king’s favour, and the officer of the guard 
made her enter at once. ‘Timopht brought her to the 
Pharaoh. : 

When he perceived the vile old hag crawling 


towards his throne like a crushed insect, the King 


254 


Le bbh bbb bbadash het 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


remembered his promise and gave orders to open 
one of the granite chambers of the treasury, and 
to allow her to take as much gold as she could 
carry away. Timopht, whom Pharaoh trusted, and 
who knew the secret of the lock, opened the stone 
gate. 

The vast mass of gold sparkled in the sunbeams, 
but the brilliancy of the metal was no brighter than 
the glance of the old woman. Her eyes turned yellow 
and flashed strangely. After a few moments of 
dazzled contemplation, she pulled up the sleeves 
of her patched tunic and bared her withered arms, on 
which the muscles stood out like cords, and which 
were deeply wrinkled above the elbow; then she 
opened and closed her curved fingers, like the talons 
of a griffin, and sprang at the mass of golden bars 
witb fierce and bestial avidity. She plunged her arms 
amid the ingots, moved them, stirred them round, 
rolled them over, threw them up; her lips trembled, 
her nostrils swelled, and down her spine ran convul- 
sive tremors. Intoxicated, mad, shaken by trepidation 
and spasmodic laughter, she cast handfuls of gold into 
her bag, saying, “* More! more! more!” so that soon 


it was full up to the mouth. 


255 


che ooh obe os ae ae che he le rodeo feo cob che reba abe kobe 


Te WTS CTS wVe VTS OTe 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Timopht, amused at the sight, let her have her way, 
not dreaming that such a skinny spectre could move 
so enormous a weight. But Thamar bound the mouth 
of her sack with a cord, and to the great surprise of 
the Egyptian, lifted it on her back. Avarice lent to 
that broken-down frame unexpected strength of mus- 
cles; all the nerves and fibres of the arms, the neck, 
the shoulders, strained to breaking, bore up under a 
mass of metal which would have made the most robust 
Nahasi porter bow down. Her brows bent, like those 
of an ox when the ploughshare strikes a stone, Thamar 
staggered out of the palace, knocking up against the 
walls, walking almost on all-fours, for every now and 
then she put her hands out to save herself from being 
crushed under her burden. But at last she got out, 
and the load of gold was her legitimate property. 
Breathless, exhausted, covered with sweat, her back 
bruised and her fingers cut, she sat down at the palace 
gate upon her beloved sack, and never did any seat 
appear to her so soft. After a short time, she per- 
ceived a couple of Israelites, passing by with a litter 
on which they had been bearing a burden. She 
called them, and promising them a handsome reward, 


induced them to take up the sack and to follow 


256 


ELELLLE EES ett stetes 
BR OWA NIE, “Or * MUMMY 


her, he Israelites, preceded by Thamar, went 
down the streets of Thebes, reached the waste places 
studded with mud huts and placed the sack in one 
of them. ‘Thamar paid them grumblingly the prom- 
ised reward. 7 

Meanwhile Tahoser had been installed in a splendid 
apartment, a regal apartment as beautiful as that of the 
Pharaoh. Elegant pillars with lotus capitals upbore 
the starry roof, framed in by a cornice of blue palm- 
branches painted upon a golden background. Panels 
of a tender lilac-colour with green lines ending in 
flower buds showed symmetrically on the walls; fine 
matting covered the stone slabs of the flooring; sofas, 
inlaid with plates of metal alternating with enamels, 
and covered with black stuffs adorned with red circles, 
armchairs with lions’ feet, with cushions that fell over 
the back, stools formed of swans’ necks interlaced, 
piles of purple leather cushions filled with thistle-down, 
seats which could hold two persons, tables of costly 
woods supported by statues of Asiatic captives, — 
formed the furniture of the room. 

On richly carved pedestals rested tall porcelain vases 
and great golden bowls, the workmanship of which was 


even more precious than the material. One of them 


17 257 


—— 


she che ak feos che oe oe oh oe etek cele ce echo chee oh chee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


with a slender base, was supported by two horses’ heads 
- with fringed hoods and harness. ‘The handles were 
formed of two lotus stalks gracefully falling over 
two rose ornaments; on the cover were ibises with 
erect ears and sharp horns, and on the body of the 
vase were represented gazelles flying from the dogs 
amid stalks of papyrus. Another, no less curious, 
had for cover a monstrous Typhon head, adorned 
with palms and grimacing between two vipers. ‘The 
sides were ornamented with leaves and denticulated 
bands. 

One of the bowls, supported by two figures wearing 
mitres and dressed in robes with broad borders, with one 
hand upbearing the handle and with the other the foot, 
amazed by its huge size and the perfection and finish 
of the ornamentation. “The other, smaller and more 
perfect in shape perhaps, spread out gracefully; the 
slender and supple bodies of jackals whose paws rested 
upon the edge as if the animals sought to drink, formed 
the handles. Metal mirrors, framed with deformed 
faces, as though to give the beauty who looked into 
them the pleasure of contrast, coffers of cedar or syca- 
more wood painted and ornamented, caskets of enam- 


elled ware, flagons of alabaster, onyx, and glass, boxes 


258 


checks be che che be oe ok ch ate ected echo cheat h abeabece 


WO Ore CWO OF evo vie vee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


of perfumes, —all these testified to the magnificence 
that the Pharaoh lavished upon Tahoser. The pre- 
cious objects contained in that room were well worth a 
kingdom’s ransom. 

Seated upon an ivory seat, Tahoser looked at the 
stuffs and gems shown her by nude maidens, who 
scattered around the wealth contained in the coffers. 
Tahoser had just emerged from the bath, and the 
aromatic oils with which she had been rubbed, still 
further softened her delicate, satin-like skin ; her flesh 
was almost translucent. She was of superhuman 
beauty, and when she gazed upon the burnished metal 
mirror, with her eyes brightened with antimony, she 
could not help smiling upon her reflection. A_ full 
gauze robe enveloped her fair form without veiling it. 
For sole ornament she wore a necklace composed of 
lapis-lazuli hearts surmounted by crosses, hanging from 
a string of gold and pearls. 

The Pharaoh appeared on the threshold of the 
hall. A golden asp bound his thick hair, and a 
calasiris, the folds of which, brought forward, formed 
a point, enclosed his body from the belt to the knees: 
a single necklace encircled his unconquered, muscular 


neck. 


259 


ere ore Cre eve eve ore Te CFO Ore oFe 


THE ROMANCE OF A NET aa 


On perceiving the King, Tahoser rose from her 
seat to prostrate herself, but the Pharaoh came to her, 
raised her up, and made her sit down. 

‘‘Do not thus humble yourself, Tahoser,’’ he said 
in a gentle voice. ‘TI will you to be my equal. Iam 
weary of being alone in the universe. Although I am 
almighty and possess you, I shall wait until you love 
me as if I were but a man. Put away all fear; be a 
woman with a woman’s will, sympathies, antipathies, 
and caprices. I have never seen one. But if your 
heart at last speaks in my favour, hold out to me, 
when I enter your room, in order that I may know it, 
the lotus flower out of your hair.” 

Though he strove to prevent it, Tahoser threw her- 
self at the knees of the Pharaoh and let fall a tear upon 
his bare feet. 

‘©Why is my soul Poéri’s?”’ she said to herself as 
she resumed her place upon the ivory seat. 

Timopht, putting one hand on the ground and the 
other on his head, entered the room. 

“QO King,” he said, “(a mysterious personage seeks 
to speak to you. His gray beard falls down to his 
waist, shining horns emerge from his bare brow, and 


his eyes shine like fire. An unknown power precedes 


260 


Sedecb deck ch ek oh bb echo shh ech check eke 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
him, for all the guards fall back and all the gates open 
before him. What he says must be done, and I have 
come to you in the midst of your pleasures, even were 
death to be the punishment of my audacity.” 

“¢'What is his name?” said the King. 

“© Mosche,” replied Timopht. 


261 


bebeteteeeeeettttktetdettst 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
ahaha cba obe oho oe oe oe cr cdoade cob cb ba beac abe efee 


XV 


HE King passed into another hall to receive 

Mosche, and sat down on a throne, the 

arms of which were formed of lions, hung 

a broad pectoral ornament on his breast, and assumed 
a pose of supreme indifference. 

Mosche appeared, accompanied by another Hebrew, 
called Aharon. August though the Pharaoh was, as he 
sat on his golden throne, surrounded by his officers and 
his fan-bearers, within that high hall with its huge 
columns, against that background of paintings which 
depicted the deeds of his ancestors or his own, Mosche 
was no less imposing. In him the majesty of age 
equalled the majesty of sovereignty. Although he was 
seventy years old, he seemed endowed with manly 
vigour, and nothing in him showed decadence into 
senility. The wrinkles on his brow and his cheeks, 
like the marks of the chisel on the granite, made him 
venerable without telling his age. His brown and 
wrinkled neck was joined to his powerful shoulders by 
gaunt but still powerful muscles, and a network of 


sinewy veins showed upon his hands, which did not 


262 


ee 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


shoe abe le ole oh fe oe oh ole ofa 


tremble as old men’s hands generally do. A soul more 
energetic than a human soul vivified his body, and on 
his face shone in the shadow a strange light. It 
seemed like the reflection of an invisible sun. 

Without prostrating himself, as was the custom 
when men approached the King, Mosche drew near the 
throne of the Pharaoh and said to him: “ Thus saith 
the Lord God of Israel: ‘Let my people go, that they 
may hold a feast unto me in the wilderness.’ ” 

The Pharaoh replied, “Who is the Lord, that I 
should obey his voice to let Israel go? I know not 
the Lord, neither will I let Israel go.” 

Without being intimidated by the King’s words, the 
tall old man replied unhesitatingly, for the stuttering 
which had formerly affected him had disappeared, — 

“<The God of the Hebrews hath met with us. Let . 
us go, we pray thee, three days’ journey into the desert, 
and sacrifice unto the Lord our God; lest he fall upon 
us with pestilence, or with the sword.” 

Aharon confirmed by a nod the demand of Mosche. 

“© Wherefore do ye, Mosche and Aharon, let the peo- 
ple from their works?” replied the Pharaoh. “ Hap- 
pily for you I am to-day in a clement humour, for I 


might have had you beaten with rods, had your tongues 


263 


che cba obe a oe oh te he ob ah chcbechedecleche ch cb abe cbe ch ch hee 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
and ears cut off, or thrown you living to the crocodiles. 
Know, for I tell you so, there is no other god than 
Ammon Ra, the supreme and primeval being, at once 
male and female; who is his own father and his own 
mother, whose husband he is also; from whom come 
all the other gods which unite heaven to earth and 
which are but forms of those two obscure principles. 
The wise know it, and the priests, who have long 
studied mysteries in the colleges and in the temples 
consecrated to his diverse representations. Do not, 
therefore, allege another god of your own invention to 
move the Hebrews to revolt, and to prevent them from 
doing their appointed work. Your pretext of sacrifice 
is plain, —you wish to flee. Withdraw from before 
me, and continue to mould clay for my royal and 
_ priestly buildings, for my pyramids, my palaces, and 
my walls. Go! I have spoken.” 

Mosche, seeing that he could not move the Pharaoh’s 
heart, and that if he insisted he would excite his wrath, 
withdrew in silence, followed by Aharon in dismay. 

“‘T have obeyed the Lord God,” said Mosche to his 
companion when they had crossed the pylon, ‘but 
the Pharaoh remains as insensible as if I had been 


speaking to those granite figures seated upon thrones at 


264 


sede os oh oe es oh bebe che cheb a cbeck he be 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
the palace gates, or to those idols with heads of dogs, 
monkeys, or hawks to which the priests burn incense 
within the depths of the sanctuaries. What shall we 
reply to the people when they question us on the result 
of our mission ?”’ 

The Pharaoh, fearing lest the Hebrews should be- 
think themselves of throwing off their yoke in accord- 
ance with the suggestions of Mosche, made them work 
more severely than before, and refused them straw to 
make their bricks. Thenceforth the children of Israel 
spread throughout Egypt, plucking the stubble and 
cursing their tyrants; for they were very unhappy, 
and they said that the advice of Mosche had increased 
their misery. 

One day Mosche and Aharon reappeared in the 
palace, and once again called upon the King to let the 
Hebrews go to sacrifice unto the Lord in the wilderness. 

«What proof have I,” replied the Pharaoh, “ that it 
is the Lord who sends you to me to tell me these things, 
and that you are not, as I fancy, vile impostors ?” 

Aharon threw down his wand before the King, and 
the wood began to twist, to curl, to grow scales, to 
move its head and tail, to rise up, and to utter horrible 


hissings: the wand had been changed into a serpent. 


265 


cheb ob de ok ch be cbc che chech cbechechecbee oh oh 


ore ote We CO eve oe vie ore one wre ore wre 


THE ROMANCE ‘OF A UNDGVENINS 


Its rings grated over the flags, it swelled its hood, 
it whipped out its forked tongue, and rolling its red 
eyes, seemed to select the victim which it was about 
to bite. 

The officers and servants ranged around the throne 
remained motionless and mute with terror at the sight 
of this prodigy ; the bravest half drew their swords. 

But the Pharaoh was in no wise moved. A disdain- 
ful smile flitted over his lips, and he said, — 

“Ts that all you can do? ‘The miracle is slight, 
and the prodigy poor. Send for my wise men, my 
sorcerers and my magicians.” 

They came. They were men of venerable and 
mystic appearance, with shaven heads, wearing san- 
dals of byblos, dressed in long linen robes, holding 
in their hands wands on which were engraved hie- 
roglyphs. They were yellow and dried up like 
mummies by night watches, study, and austerity; the 
fatigue entailed by successive initiations could be read 
upon their faces, in which their eyes alone seemed 
to retain life. 

They drew up in a line before the throne of the 
Pharaoh without paying the least attention to the 


serpent, which wriggled, crawled, and _ hissed. 


266 


she abe obs oBe by ob ole obs abe of ee cbecbe be ee rarars oe chek 


fe WO WIE WTS We vie eh of 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


“Can you,” said the King, “change your wands 
into reptiles as: Aharon has done?” 

“© King, is it for such child’s play,’ said the 
oldest of the band, “that you have sent for us from 
the recesses of the secret chambers where under the 
starry ceilings, by the light of the lamps, we are 
meditating, bending over undecipherable papyri, kneel- 
ing before the hieroglyphic stela with their mysterious, 
deep meanings, forcing the secrets of nature, calcu- 
lating the power of numbers, bearing our trembling 
hand to the border of the veil of the great Isis? 
Let us go back, for life is short, and the wise man 
has scarce time to tell to another the word which 
he has learned. Let us go back to our laboratories. 
The merest juggler, the first charmer of serpents 
who plays the flute on the public squares, will suffice 
to satisfy you.” 

“ Bnnana, do what I wish,’ said the Pharaoh to 
the chief of the wise men and the magicians. 

Old Ennana turned towards the band of sages, 
who remained standing motionless, their minds already 
lost again in deep meditations. 

“Cast down every man your rod as you whisper 


the magic word.” 


267 


de ce fee oe hs oe te oe ob ede deca ce oo sooo eo oe 


We OFS CF GO CTO VTE CVS STO VTE We ote eV Oe VFO We 


DHE ROMANCE (OF Av MOU NERY 


The rods fell together with a sharp sound upon 
the stone slabs, and the wise men resumed. their 
perpendicular attitude like the statues placed against 
the pillars of the tombs. They did not even deign 
to look at their feet to see if the miracle were being 
wrought, so sure were they of the power of their 
formula. 

And then was seen a strange and horrible sight. 
The rods twisted like branches of green wood in 
the fire, the ends flattened out into the shape of 
heads, thinned out into the shape of tails. Some 
remained smooth, others became scaly, according to 
the kind of serpent. All these swarmed and crawled 
and hissed, interlaced and knotted into hideous knots. 
There were vipers bearing the mark of the spear- 
head upon their low brows, horned snakes with men- 
acing protuberances, greenish, viscous hydras, asps 
with movable fangs, yellow trigonocephalz, orvets or 
blind serpents, crotalida with short heads, black skins, 
and rattles on their tails, amphisbena, which can glide 
forward or backward, boas opening mouths wide 
enough to swallow an ox, serpents with eyes sur- 
rounded with discs like those of owls;— the pave- 


ment of the hall was covered with them. 


268 


shoe a be oe obs che abe che ober cdecke do cde eee ce fool abe ete 


ore ore ne CFO Fe CO FS CTS BHO WIS 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Tahoser, who shared the throne of the Pharaoh, 
raised her beautiful bare feet and pulled them back 
under her, pale with terror. 

“‘Well,”’ said the Pharaoh to Mosche, “you see 
that the skill of my magicians equals, and even sur- 
passes yours; their rods have turned into serpents 
like that of Aharon. Invent another prodigy if you 
seek to convince me.” 

Mosche stretched forth his hand, and Aharon’s 
serpent glided towards the twenty-four reptiles. The 
struggle was not long; it soon had swallowed the 
hideous things, real or seeming creations of the wise 
men of Egypt. Then it resumed its former wand 
shape. 

This result seemed to amaze Ennana. He bent 
his head, thought for a moment, and said, Jike a man 
‘ who perceives something: “I shall find the word 
and the sign. I have interpreted wrongly the fourth 
hieroglyph of the fifth perpendicular line in which 
is the spell of serpents. O King, do you still 
need us?” said the chief of the wise men aloud. 
“T long to resume the reading of Hermes Trisme- 
gistus, which contains more important secrets than 


these sleight-of-hand tricks.” 


269 


abe che abs obs obs obs obs alle abe obs elle ofoele obo ole obs ole obs ofr oe che ofp ole ols 


She oho cle dhe ote ate cho o¥e efe oye ove ole 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
The Pharaoh signed to the old man that he might 


withdraw, and the silent procession returned to the 


depths of the palace. 

The King re-entered the harem with Trahoser. 
The priest’s daughter, terrified and still trembling 
at these prodigies, knelt down before him and said: 
‘© Pharaoh, do you not fear to anger by your 
resistance the unknown god who has ordered these 
Israelites to go a three days’ journey into the desert 
to sacrifice unto him? Let Mosche and his Hebrews 
depart to fulfil their rites, for perhaps the Lord, as 
they call him, will afflict the land of Egypt and bring 
death upon us.” 

“© What! does that reptile jugglery frighten you?” 
replied the Pharaoh. ‘Did you not see that my 
wise men produced serpents with their wands? ” 

“Yes, but Aharon’s devoured them, and that is ° 
an ill omen.” 

“What matters it? Am I not the favourite of 
Phré, the preferred of Ammon Ra? Have I not under 
my sandals the effigies of conquered nations? With 
one breath I shall sweep away when I please the 
whole of that Hebrew race, and I shall see if their 


god can protect them.” 


270 


ove ve we 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


shot a obras obs oe be oof cece ck cece cba fale obo beable 


“© Beware, Pharaoh,” said Tahoser, who remem- 
bered Poéri’s words about the power of Jehovah. 
‘© Do not allow pride to harden your heart. Mosche 
and Aharon terrify me; they must be supported by a 
more powerful god, for they braved your wrath.” 

“Tf their god is so powerful,” said the Pharaoh, 
answering the fear expressed by Tahoser, ‘‘ would 
he leave them thus captives, humiliated and bowing 
like beasts of burden under the harvest labour? Let 
us forget these vain prodigies and live in peace. 
Think rather of the love I bear you, and remember 
that the Pharaoh is more powerful than the Lord, 
the fanciful god of the Hebrews.” 

“< Yes, you are the destroyer of the nations and the 
ruler of thrones, and men are before you like grains 
of sand blown by the southern wind. I know it,” 
replied ‘Tahoser. 

“And yet I cannot make you love me,” said the 
Pharaoh, with a smile. 

“The ibex fears the lion, the dove dreads the hawk, 
the eye shrinks from the sun, and I can see you yet 
only through terror and blazing light. It takes human 
weakness a long time to become familiar with royal 


majesty; a god always terrifies a mortal.” 


20% 


pg ote ROMAN -E OF Ait “MUMMY 


“You fill me with regret, Tahoser, that I am not the 
first-comer, an officer, a nomarch, a priest, a labourer, 
or even less. But since I cannot make the King into 
a man, I can make a queen out of the woman and 
bind the golden uraus upon your lovely brow. ‘The 
Queen will no longer dread the King.” 

‘‘Even when you make me sit by you on your 
throne, my thoughts remain kneeling at your feet. 
But you are so good in spite of your superhuman 
beauty, your power so boundless and your splendour 
so dazzling, that perhaps my heart will grow bold and 
will dare to beat against yours.” 

Thus talked the Pharaoh and ‘Tahoser. The 
priest’s daughter could not forget Poéri, and sought to 
gain time by flattering the passion of the King. To 
escape from the palace, to find the young Hebrew 
again, was impossible. Besides, Poéri had accepted 
her love rather than shared it. Ra’hel, in spite of her 
generosity, was a dangerous rival; and then, the love 
of the Pharaoh touched the priest’s daughter, — she 
desired to love him, and perhaps she was not so far 


from doing so as she believed. 


272 


shea bea oe chs ce te che ae fecha cbecbecle obec cfc oe aoe 


Se ee a ee Sree ON Oe ore oe 4 = = 


el. 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
obe of, 


FEW days later the Pharaoh was driving 
A along the Nile, standing on his chariot and 
followed by his court. He had gone forth to 
observe the height of the flood, when in the centre of 
the road appeared, like two phantoms, Aharon and 
Mosche. ‘The king drew in his horses, the foam of 
whose mouths was already flecking the breast of the 
tall, motionless old man. 

Mosche, with slow and solemn voice repeated his 
adjuration. 

“Prove to me by some wonder the power of your 
god,” answered the King, “and I will grant your 
request.” 

Turning towards Aharon, who was a few steps 
behind him, Mosche said, ‘“‘ Take thy rod, and stretch 
out thine hand upon the waters of Egypt, upon their 
streams, upon their rivers, and upon their ponds, and 
upon all their pools of water, that they may become 
blood; and that there may be blood throughout all 
the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood and in 


vessels of stone.”’ 


18 273 


deobebe cede ch check hab bebe dbedch abe cheba oh ook 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 

Aharon lifted up his rod and smote the waters that 
were in the river. Thetrain of the Pharaoh awaited 
the result anxiously. “The King, who had a heart of 
brass within a breast of granite, smiled disdainfully, 
trusting in the skill of his wise men to confound the 
foreign magicians. As soon as the river had been 
smitten by the rod of the Hebrew,—the rod which 
had been a serpent, —the waters began to turn muddy 
and to boil; their mud colour was gradually changed ; 
reddish tones began to mingle with it; then the 
whole mass assumed a sombre purple colour, and 
the Nile seemed a river of blood with scarlet waves 
that edged the banks with rosy foam. It seemed 
to reflect a vast conflagration or a sky rayed by 
lightning, but the atmosphere was calm, Thebes was 
not burning, and the unchanging azure spread over 
the red stream, marked here and there by the white 
bellies of dead fishes. The long crocodiles, using 
their crooked paws, emerged from the river on to 
the bank, and the heavy hippopotami, like blocks of 
rose granite covered with leprous, black moss, fled 
through the reeds, or raised above the stream their 
mighty heads, unable to breathe in that water of 
blood. The canals, the fish-ponds, and the pools 


274 


THE ROMANCE OF A!) /MUMMY 


had all turned the same colour, and the vessels full 
of water were red like the basins in which the blood 
of victims is collected. 

The Pharaoh was not astonished at the wonder, and 
said to the Hebrews, — 

“This miracle might terrify a credulous and igno- 
rant people, but it has nothing surprising for me. Let 
Ennana and the wise men come. They will repeat 
this enchantment.” 

The wise men came, led by their chief. Ennana 
cast a glance on the river and its purple waves, and 
saw at once what was the matter. 

‘Restore things to their primitive condition,’ he 
said to Mosche’s companion; “I will repeat your 
wonder.” 

Aharon again smote the stream, which at once 
resumed its natural colour. Ennana nodded briefly, 
like an impartial expert who does justice to the skill of 
a colleague; he considered the enchantment was well 
wrought for one who had not had, like himself, the 
opportunity of studying wisdom in the mysterious 
chambers of the labyrinth, where a very few of the 


initiated can alone enter, so trying are the tests which 


have to be undergone. 


275 


ALALLELLELLEALALALALALE LES 


je eye eve ove we 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘¢Tt is my turn now,” he said; and he stretched out 
over the Nile his rod engraved with hieroglyphic signs, 
muttering a few words of a tongue so old that it had 
probably ceased to be understood even in the days of 
Mene, the first king of Egypt,—-a language spoken 
by sphinxes, with syllables of granite. 

A vast red flood stretched suddenly from one bank 
to the other, and the Nile again rolled ensanguined 
waves to the sea. The twenty-four magicians saluted 
the king as if they were about to withdraw. 

“© Remain,” said the Pharaoh. 

They resumed their impassible countenances. 

‘Have you no other proof of your mission than 
that? My wise men, you see, imitate your wonders 
very well.” 

Without appearing discouraged by the ironical words 
of the King, Mosche replied: “In seven days’ time, 
if you have not made up your mind to let Israel go 
into the desert to sacrifice to the Lord according to 
their rites, I shall return and perform another wonder 
before you.” 

At the end of seven days Mosche reappeared. 


He spoke to his servant Aharon the words of the 
Lorde. 


276 


dedecbe decks he ch ck echo cab check ch che cde ceeded ob ech 


wre ere ve wre GO Whe WV 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


‘Stretch out thine hand with thy rod over the 
streams, over the rivers, and over the ponds, and cause 
the frogs to come up upon the land of Egypt.” 

As soon as Aharon had done as he was bidden, mil- 
lions of frogs emerged from the canals, the rivers, and 
the marshes; they covered the fields and the roads, 
they hopped upon the steps of the temples and the 
palaces, they invaded the sanctuaries and the most 
secret chambers; legions of other frogs followed those 
which had first appeared; they were found in the 
houses, in the kneading-troughs, in the ovens, in 
the coffers; no one could step anywhere without 
crushing some. As if moved by springs, they jumped 
between peoples’ legs, to the right and the left, forward 
and backward; as far as the eye could reach, they 
were seen rippling, hopping, jumping past one another, 
for they already lacked room, and their numbers grew, 
their ranks became denser, they formed heaps here 
and there; innumerable green backs turned the coun- 
tryside into a sort of animated green meadow, on which 
their yellow eyes shone like flowers. ‘The animals, — 
horses, asses, goats, —terrified and startled, fled across 
the fields, but everywhere came upon the loathsome 


swarms. 


Pfs] 


ede oe oe cde oh de oe he oe feof te decbe obec oecdecke oe aeck 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


The Pharaoh, who from the threshold of his palace 


beheld this rising tide of frogs with weariness and dis- 


gust, crushed as many as he could with the end of his 
sceptre and pushed back the others with his curved 
sandals, but his labour was lost; more frogs came no 
one knew whence, and took the places of the dead, 
swarming more than they did, croaking more than 
they did, more loathsome, more uncomfortable, bolder, 
showing the vertebrae on their backs, staring at 
him with their big, round eyes, spreading out their 
webbed feet, wrinkling the white skin of their throats. 
The vile animals seemed endowed with intelligence, 
and they formed denser shoals around the King than 
anywhere else. 

The swarming flood grew and still grew: on the 
knees of the colossi, on the cornices of the palaces, on 
the backs of the sphinxes, on the entablatures of the 
temples, on the shoulders of the gods, on the pyramid- 
ions of the obelisks, the hideous reptiles, with swollen 
backs and indrawn feet, had taken up their places. 
The ibises, which at first had rejoiced at this unex- 
pected treat, and had lanced them with their long 
beaks, now alarmed by this mighty invasion fled to the 
upper regions of the sky, snapping their long bills. 


278 


dese abe eos oh doce ch ecco ecb deeded oe oooh 


we se oie wie ew 


Pee ROMANCE (OF Al NOU MM Y 


Aharon and Mosche triumphed. Ennana, having 
been summoned, was sunk in thought; his finger, 
placed upon his bald brow, his eyes half-closed, he 
seemed to be seeking within his memory for a forgotten 
magic formula. 

The Pharaoh, somewhat uneasy, turned towards 
him. ‘Well, Ennana, have you lost your mind by 
dint of thought? Is this wonder beyond the reach of 
your wisdom?” 

“In no wise, O King; but when a man is engaged 
in measuring the infinite and calculating eternity and 
in spelling out the incomprehensible, it may happen 
that he does not at once recall the odd word which 
rules reptiles, makes them live or destroys them. 
Watch! all this vermin is about to vanish.” 

The old magician waved his wand and whispered a 
few words; in an instant the fields, the squares, the 
roads, the quays along the stream, the streets in the 
city, the courts of the palaces, the rooms of the houses, 
were cleansed of their croaking guests, and restored to 
their primitive condition. 

The King smiled, proud of the power of his magician. 

“It is not enough to have broken the spell of 


Aharon,” said Ennana; ‘I shall repeat it.” 


249 


cb cbedeobeecdecle dee cbe ceded oe obo 


YW OVO OFS OTS OFS CFS GIO WO WO C10 CFO OTe 


choc eo oe ob oh 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Ennana waved his wand in the opposite direction 
and muttered the contrary formula. Immediately the 
frogs reappeared in greater numbers than before, leap- 
ing and croaking. In a twinkling the whole land was 
covered with them, and then Aharon stretched out his 
rod, and the Egyptian magician was unable to dispel 
the invasion called up by his enchantment. In vain he 
spoke the mysterious words, the incantation had lost its 
power. ‘The bands of wise men withdrew, pursued by 
the loathsome scourge, and the brows of the Pharaoh 
were bent with anger, but he hardened his heart and 
would not grant the prayer of Mosche; his pride 
strove to struggle and to fight against the unknown 
God of Israel. 

However, unable to get rid of the terrible reptiles, 
Pharaoh promised Mosche, if he would intercede for 
him with. his God, to grant the Hebrews permission to 
go into the desert to sacrifice. 

The frogs died or returned to the waters, but the 
Pharaoh hardened his heart, and in spite of the gentle 
remonstrances of Tahoser, he did not keep his promise. 

Then was let loose upon Egypt a multitude of 
scourges and plagues. A fierce warfare was waged 


between the wise men and the two Hebrews whose 


280 


SM. ONS OND WTS Oe OTe OTe OVO ete Be OF We WHO ome 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


wonders they reproduced. Mosche changed all the 
dust in Egypt into lice; Ennana did the same. 
Mosche took two handfuls of ashes of the furnace 
and sprinkled them toward the heaven in the sight of 
the Pharaoh, and immediately they became a_ boil 
breaking forth with blains upon man and upon beast 
among the Egyptians, but not upon the Hebrews. 

“‘Tmitate that wonder!” cried the Pharaoh, beside 
himself with anger, and as red as if he were standing 
in front of a fiery furnace, as he addressed himself to 
the chief of the wise men. 

“Tt would be useless,” replied the old man, in a 
tone of discouragement. “The finger of the Un- 
known is in all this; our vain formule cannot prevail 
against that mysterious power. Submit, and let us 
return to our sanctuaries to study this new god, this 
Lord, who is more powerful than Ammon Ra, Osiris, 
and Typhon. The learning of Egypt has been over- 
come, the riddle of the sphinx cannot be answered, and 
the vast mystery of the great Pyramid covers nothing- 
ness only.” 

As the Pharaoh still refused to let the Hebrews go, 
all the cattle of the Egyptians were smitten with death ; 


the Israelites lost not a single head. 


281 


che ob abe ce os os oe os oe of ce nce cf af ae ole obo ee clo cl oe hook 


THE ROMANCE OF A,’ MUMMY 


A wind from the south arose and blew all night 
long, and in the morning when day dawned, a vast red 
cloud concealed the whole of the heavens. “Through 
the dun-coloured fog the sun shone red like a buckler 
in the forge, and seemed to have lost its beams. ‘The 
cloud was different from other clouds, it was a living 
cloud; the noise of its wings was heard; it alighted 
on the earth, not in the shape of great drops of rain, 
but in shoals of rose, yellow, and green grasshoppers, 
more numerous than the grains of sand in the Libyan 
desert. They followed each other in swarms like the 
straw blown about by the storm; the air was darkened; 
they filled up the ditches, the ravines, the streams; 
they put out by their mere mass the fires lighted to 
destroy them; they struck against obstacles and then 
heaped up and overcame them. . If a man opened his 
mouth, he breathed one in; they found their way into 
the folds of the clothing, into the hair, into the nostrils; 
their dense columns made chariots turn back; they 
overthrew the solitary passer-by and soon covered him. 
Their formidable army, springing and flying, marched 
over Egypt from the Cataracts to the Delta, over an 
immense breadth of country, destroying the grass, re- 


ducing the trees to the condition of skeletons, devour- 


282 


whe be obs be che oe ce able obs able cle cece obec ol ol of obs obs ob ob ofr abe ol 


OVS VTS OFS OTD OTS CTS OWE OTe ee OVS BTS WTO CFO OVS 


THE ROMANCE OF la MUMMY 


ing plants to the roots, leaving behind but a bare earth 
trodden down like a threshing-floor. 

At the request of the Pharaoh Mosche made the 
scourge cease. An extremely violent west wind 
carried all the grasshoppers into the Sea of Weeds; 
but the Pharaoh’s obstinate heart, harder than brass, 
porphyry, or basalt, would not relent. 

Hail, a scourge unknown to Egypt, fell from 
Heaven amid blinding lightning and deafening thunder, 
in enormous stones, cutting, bruising, breaking every- 
thing, mowing down the grain as if with a scythe. 
Then black, opaque, horrifying darkness, in which 
lights were extinguished as in the depths of the airless 
passages, spread its heavy clouds over the land of 
Egypt, so fair, so luminous, so golden under its azure 
sky, where the night is clearer than the daytime in 
other climes. ‘The terrified people, believing them- 
selves already shrouded in the impenetrable darkness 
of the sepulchre, groped their way or sat down by the 
propylaa, uttering plaintive cries and tearing their 
clothes. 

One night, a night of terror and of horror, a spectre 
flew across the whole of Egypt, entering every house 


the door of which was not marked with red, and the 


283 


tebtbebbteeeeeeeetebtbd dd dh 
.THE ROMANCE) OF AyiMG Mii 


first-born of the males died, the son of the Pharaoh 
as well as the son of the meanest hind; yet the 
King, notwithstanding all these dread signs, would 
not yield. 

He remained within the recesses of his palace, fierce, 
silent, gazing at the body of his son stretched out upon 
the funeral couch with the jackals’ feet, and heedless 
of the tears of T’ahoser which wetted his hand. 

Mosche stood upon tne threshold of the room with- 
out any one having introduced him, for all the ser- 
vants had fled hither and thither; and he repeated his 
demand with imperturbable serenity. 

“¢Go,”’ said Pharaoh at last, “‘ and sacrifice unto your 
God as you please.” 

Tahoser threw herself on the King’s neck, and said 
to him, ‘‘ Now I love you, for you are a man, and not 


a god of granite.” 


284 


HE Pharaoh did not answer Tahoser; he 

gazed with a sombre eye upon the body of 

his first-born son; his untamed pride re- 

belled, even as he yielded. In his heart he did not 

believe in the Lord, and he explained away the scourges 

which had smitten Egypt by attributing them to the 

magic power of Mosche and Aharon, which was 

greater than that of his magicians. “The thought of 
yielding exasperated his violent, fierce soul. 

But even had he wished to retain the Israelites, his 
terrified people would not have allowed it. The 
Egyptians, dreading to die, would all have driven out 
the foreigners who were the cause of their ills and 
suffering. They kept away from them with super- 
stitious terror, and when the great Hebrew passed, fol- 
lowed by Aharon, the bravest fled, fearing some new 
prodigy, and they said, “Is not the rod of his com- 
panion about to turn into a serpent again and coil itself 
around us?” 

Had Tahoser then forgotten Poéri when she threw 


her arms around the Pharaoh’s neck? In no wise; 


285 


th che obs he oe che he oe he be che nce he choco he che hecho he check 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


but she felt, springing up within the King’s obstinate 
soul, projects of vengeance and of extermination; she 
feared massacres in which would have fallen the young 
Hebrew and the gentle Ra’hel, —a general destruction, 
which this time would have changed the waters of the 
Nile into real blood; and she strove to turn away the 
King’s wrath by her caresses and gentle words. 

The funeral procession came for the body of the 
young prince, to carry it to the Memnonia quarter, 
where it was to undergo the preparation for embalm- 
ing, which lasts seventy days. The Pharaoh saw the 
body depart with a gloomy look, and he said, as if filled 
with a melancholy presentiment, — 

“Now have I no longer a son, O Tahoser. If I 
die, you will be Queen of Egypt.” 

“© Why speak of death?” said the priest’s daughter ; 
“years will follow years without leaving a trace of 
their passage upon your robust body, and generations 
will fall around you like the leaves around a tree which 
remains standing.” 

“Have I not been vanquished, — I who am invin- 
cible ?”’ replied the Pharaoh. ‘Of what use are the 
bassi-relievi of the temples and the palaces which 


represent me armed with a scourge and a sceptre, 


286 


be oe obs abe oe obs obs abe abe obs che ho che ale obs obs obs obs obs ells obs oe oboe 


Ce ee CTS CFS OTS OFS OTS VIS Te ore ave ate EHO tw OTS sie we vie 


TIES ROMANCE (OF Ai‘M MMY 


driving my war chariot over bodies, and dragging 
by their hair subject nations, if I am obliged to yield 
to the spells of a foreign magician, —if the gods to 
whom [| have raised so many vast temples, built for 
eternity, do not defend me against the unknown god of 
that low race? ‘The prestige of my power is forever 
gone; my wise men, reduced to silence, abandon me; 
my people murmur against me. I am only a mighty 
simulacrum. I willed, and I could not perform. You 
were right when you said just now, Tahoser, that I am 
aman. I have come down to the level of men. But 
since you love me now, I shall try to forget; I shall 
wed you when the funeral ceremonies are over.” 
Fearing lest the Pharaoh should recall his word, the 
Hebrews were getting ready for departure, and soon 
their cohorts started, led by a cloud of smoke during 
the day and a pillar of fire by night. ‘They took their 
way through the sandy wastes that lie between the Nile 
and the Sea of Weeds, avoiding the tribes which might 
have opposed their passage. One after another, the 
Hebrew tribes defiled in front of the copper statue 
made by the magicians, which possessed the property 
of stopping escaping slaves, but this time the spell, 


which had been invincible for centuries, failed to 


287 


tebbbbeetttebtbbt tb ddd ddl 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


work; the Lord had destroyed it. “The vast multitude 
advanced slowly, covering the land with its flocks, its 
beasts of burden laden with the riches borrowed from 
the Egyptians, dragging the enormous baggage of a 
nation which is suddenly migrating. “he human eye 
could see neither the head nor the tail of the column, 
which disappeared on either horizon in a cloud of dust. 
If any one had sat down by the roadside to see pass the 
whole procession, he would have seen the sun rise and 
set more than once. Men came and came and came 
always. ‘The sacrifice to the Lord was a vain pretext ; 
Israel was leaving the land of Egypt forever, and the 
mummy of Yusouf, in its painted and gilded case, was 
carried along on the shoulders of bearers who were 
relieved at regular intervals. 

So the Pharaoh became very wroth indeed, and 
resolved to pursue the fleeing Hebrews. He ordered 
six hundred war chariots to be prepared, called together 
his commanders, bound around his body his broad 
crocodile-leather belt, filled the two quivers in his car 
with arrows and javelins, drew on his wrist his brazen 
bracelet which deadens the vibration of the cord, and 
started, followed by a nation of soldiers. Furious and 


formidable, he urged his horses to their topmost speed, 


288 


ch cb ae ofa abe oe oe oe aber toale cece ce be echoes boohoo 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


and behind him the six hundred chariots sounded with 
the noise of brass like earthly thunder. The foot- 
soldiers hastened on, but they were unable to keep up 
with his impetuous speed. 

Often the Pharaoh was obliged to stop and await the 
rest of his army. During these halts he struck with 
his fist the edge of his chariot, stamped with impa- 
tience, and ground his teeth. He bent towards the 
horizon, seeking to perceive, behind the sand whirled 
by the wind, the fleeing tribes of the Hebrews, and 
raged at the thought that every hour increased the in- 
terval which separated them. Had not his officers 
held him back, he would have driven straight before 
him at the risk of finding himself single-handed against 
a whole people. 

They were no longer traversing the green valley of 
Egypt, but plains varied with many changing hills 
and barred with undulations like the surface of the sea; 
the framework of the land was visible through the thin 
soil. Jagged rocks, broken into all sorts of shapes, as 
if giant animals had trampled them under foot when 
the earth was still in a condition of mud, on the day 
when it emerged from chaos, broke the stretches here 


and there, and relieved from time to time by their 


19 289 


RR A RE RE TSO RE 


che foo ab oe ae ob oe oe abe een ole cee ea abe oa 


yee wg wre we te 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


abrupt breaks the flat horizon-line which merged into 
that of the sky in a zone of reddish mist. At vast 
distances grew palm trees, outspreading their dusty 
leaves near some spring, frequently dried up, and in 
the mud of which the thirsty horses plunged their 
bloodshot nostrils. 

But the Pharaoh, insensible to the rain of fire which 
fell from the white-hot heavens, at once gave the signal 
for departure, and horsemen and footmen started again 
on the march. Bodies of oxen or beasts of burden ly- 
ing on either side, with spirals of vultures sweeping 
around above them, marked the passage of the He- 
brews, and prevented the angry King from losing their 
track. 

A swift army, practised to marching, goes faster 
than a migrating people which drags with it women, 
children, old men, baggage, and tents; so the distance 
was rapidly diminishing between the Egyptian troops 
and the Israelite tribes. 

It was near Pi-ha’hiroth that the Egyptians came up 
with the Hebrews. The tribes were camped on the 
shore, but when the people saw shining in the sun the 
golden chariot of the Pharaoh, followed by his war 
chariots and his army, they uttered a mighty shout of 


290 


CFO CFO WHS CTS OFS OVO CO 240 CTW OVO 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


che ote abe ohe abe abe ho be oe abe ce cbecde orc cael ee oof of ros 


terror, and began to curse Mosche, who had led them 
to destruction. 

In point of fact their situation was desperate: in 
front of the Hebrews was the line of battle, behind 
them the deep sea. ‘The women rolled on the 
ground, tearing their clothes, pulling at their hair, 
beating their breasts. 

“Why did you not leave us in Egypt? Slavery is 
better than death, and you have led us into the desert 
to die. Were you afraid that we should not have 
sepulchres enough?” 

Thus yelled the multitudes, furious with Mosche, 
who remained impassible. ‘The bolder took up their 
arms and prepared to defend themselves, but the 
confusion was frightful, and the war chariots, wher 
they charged through that compact mass, would 
certainly make an awful slaughter. 

Mosche stretched out his hand over the sea, after 
having called upon the name of the Lord, and then 
took place a wonder which no magician could have 
repeated ; there arose an east wind of startling violence 
which blew through the waters of the Sea of Weeds . 
like the share of a giant plough, throwing to right and 


left briny mountains crowned with crests of foam. 


291 


tet¢etebeeeettettttteetese 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


Divided by the impetuosity of that irresistible wind, 
which would have swept away the pyramids like 
grains of dust, the waters rose like liquid walls and 
left free between them a broad way which could be 
traversed dry shod. ‘Through their translucency, as 
behind thick glass, were seen marine monsters twisting 
and squirming, terrified at being surprised by daylight 
in the mysterious depths of the abyss. 

The Hebrew tribes rushed through this miraculous 
issue, forming a human torrent that flowed between 
two steep banks of green waters. An innumerable 
race marked with two millions of black dots the livid 
bottom of the gulf, and impressed its feet upon mud 
which the belly of the leviathans alone had rayed; 
and the terrible wind still blew, passing over the 
heads of the Hebrews, whom it would have thrown 
to the ground like grain, and keeping back by its 
breath the heap of roaring waters. 

It was the breath of the Lord which was dividing 
the sea. 

Terrified at the wonder, the Egyptians hesitated 
to pursue the Hebrews, but the Pharaoh, with that 
high courage which nothing could daunt, urged on his 


horses, which reared and plunged, lashing them in 


292 


che te che oleae che che ake de cde che doce obecde oh obec cheobe be he obok 
THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


turn with his terrible thonged whip, his eyes blood- 
shot, foaming at the lips, and roaring like a lion 
whose prey is escaping. He at last compelled them 
to enter that strangely opened road. The six hundred 
cars followed. The Israelites of the rear guard, 
among whom were Poéri, Ra’hel, and Thamar, be- 
lieved themselves lost when they saw the enemy 
taking the same road that they had traversed. But 
when the Egyptians were fairly within the gulf, 
Mosche made a sign, the wheels of the cars fell off, 
and there was a horrible confusion of horses and 
warriors falling against each other. Then the moun- 
tains of water, miraculously sustained, suddenly fell, 
and the sea closed in, whirling in its foam men and 
animals and chariots like straw caught by the eddies 
in the current of a river. 

Alone the Pharaoh, standing within his chariot, 
which had come to the surface, shot, drunk with pride 
and anger, the last arrows of his quiver against the 
Hebrews, who were now reaching the other shore. 
Having exhausted his arrows, he took up his javelin, 
and although already nearly half engulfed, with his 
arm alone above the water, he hurled it, a powerless 


weapon, against the unknown God whom he still 


293 


ewTe weve eve ove UTE 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 


braved from the depths of the abyss. A mighty bil- 
low, which rolled two or three times over the edge 
of the sea, engulfed the last remains. 

Nothing was left of the glory and of the army of 
the Pharaoh. 

On the other bank Miriam, the sister of Aharon, 
exulted and sang as she played on the timbrel, and 
all the women of Israel beat time upon onager-skins. 
Two millions of voices were singing the hymn of 


deliverance. 


2.94. 


THE ROMANCE OF A MUMMY 
bbb bbbdbbbbbbbbtbhlhsé} of oho ots 


P “4 AHOSER in vain awaited Pharaoh, and then 
reigned over Egypt. ‘Then she also died 
after a short time. She was placed in 

the magnificent tomb which had been prepared for the 
king, whose body was never found; and her story, 
written upon papyrus, with the headings of the pages 
in red characters, by Kakevou, a scribe of the double 
chamber of light and keeper of the books, was placed 
by her side under the network of bands. 

Was it the Pharaoh or Poéri she regretted? Kake- 
vou the scribe does not tell us, and Dr. Rumphius, 
who translated the hieroglyphs of the Egyptian gram- 
mat, did not venture to settle the question. 

As for Lord Evandale, he never married, although 
he was the last of his race. His young countrywomen 
cannot understand his coldness towards their sex. But 
it would never occur to them that Lord Evandale is ret- 
rospectively in love with Tahoser, the daughter of the 
high-priest Petamounoph, who died three thousand five 
hundred years ago. Yet there are English crazes which 
have less sound reason for their existence than this one. 


295 


/ 
} 
4 


ergis Mert ees pete 


he 


. fs . be 4 5 
Tite ie Va oi 


Vee yee 


ae 


a 
- hae 


19 


Lek Lee Re 


URING tthe Exhibition of 1857, I was 
invited to be present at the opening of 
one of the mummy cases in the collec- 
tion of Egyptian antiquities, and at the 

unwrapping of the mummy it contained. My curios- 
ity was indeed lively. My readers will easily under- 
stand the reason: the scene at which I was to be 
present I had imagined and described beforehand in the 
“Romance of a Mummy.” [I do not say this to draw 
attention to my book, but to explain the peculiar in- 
terest [ took in this archeological and funereal meeting. 

When I entered the room, the mummy, already 
taken from the case, was laid on a table, its human 
shape showing indistinctly through the thickness of the 
wrappings. On the faces of the coffin was painted the 
Judgment of the Soul, the scene which is usually rep- 
resented in such cases. ‘The soul of the dead woman, 
led by two funeral genii, the one hostile, the other 


favourable, was bowing before Osiris, the great judge 


299 


HLELE SELES ettttetetes 
| nok Oh 74 dB 


of the dead, seated on his throne, wearing the pschent, 
the conventional beard on the chin, and a whip in his 
hand. Farther on, the dead woman’s actions, good or 
bad, represented by a pot of flowers and a rough piece 
of stone, were being weighed in scales. A long line 
of judges, with heads of lions, hawks, or jackals, were 
awaiting in hieratic attitudes the result of the weighing 
before delivering judgment. Below this painting were 
inscribed the prayers of the funeral ritual and the con- 
fession of the dead, who did not own to her faults, 
but stated, on the contrary, those she had not com- 
mitted, — “I have not been guilty of murder, or 
of theft, or of adultery,” etc. Another inscription 
contained the genealogy of the woman, both on 
the father’s and on the mother’s side. I do not tran- 
scribe here the series of strange names, the last of 
which is that of Nes Khons, the lady enclosed in the 
case, where she believed herself sure of rest while 
awaiting the day on which her soul would, after many 
trials, be reunited to its well-preserved body, and enjoy 
supreme felicity with its own flesh and blood; a 
broken hope, for death is as disappointing as life. 
The work of unrolling the bandages began; the 


outer envelope, of stout linen, was ripped open with 


300 


ktbeteetebttttttttttt tes 
THE UNWRAPPING OF A MUMMY 


scissors. A faint, delicate odour of balsam, incense, 
and other aromatic drugs spread through the room like 
the odour of an apothecary’s shop. The end of the 
bandage was then sought for, and when found, the 
mummy was placed upright to allow the operator to 
move freely around her and to roll up the endless band, 
turned to the yellow colour of écru linen by the palm 
wine and other preserving liquids. 

Strange indeed was the appearance of the tall rag- 
doll, the armature of which was a dead body, mov- 
ing so stiffly and awkwardly with a sort of horrible 
parody of life, under the hands that were stripping it, 
while the bandages rose in heaps around it. Some- 
times the bandages held in place pieces of stuff like 
fringed serviettes intended to fill hollows or to support 
the shape. 

Pieces of linen, cut open in the middle, had been 
passed over the head and, fitted to the shoulders, fell 
down over the chest. All these obstacles having been 
removed, there appeared a sort of veil like coarse India 
muslin, of a pinkish colour, the soft tone of which 
would have delighted a painter. It appears to me that 
the dye must have been anatto, unless the muslin, 


originally red, turned rose-colour through the action of 


301 


WO AED CEA CLO CSD CLS OL CLP ONO CNP CNS CR CMO CNV OY C= 
aa Te ere 


the balsam and of time. Under the veil there was 
another series of bandages, of finer linen, which bound 
the body more closely with their innumerable folds. 
Our curiosity was becoming feverish, and the mummy 
was being turned somewhat quickly. A Hoffmann or 
an Edgar Poe could have found here a subject for one 
of his weird tales. It so happened that a sudden 
storm was lashing the windows with heavy drops of 
rain that rattled like hail; pale lightnings illumined 
on the shelves of the cupboards the old yellowed 
skulls and the grimacing death’s-heads of the Anthro- 
pological Museum; while the low rolling of the 
thunder formed an accompaniment to the waltz of 
Nes Khons, the daughter of Horus and Rouaa, as she 
pirouetted in the impatient hands of those who were 
unwrapping her. 

The mummy was visibly growing smaller in size, 
and its slender form showed more and more plainly 
under its diminishing wrappings. _A vast quantity of 
linen filled the room, and we could not help wondering 
how a box which was scarcely larger than an ordinary 
cofin had managed to hold it all. The neck was 
the first portion of the body to issue from the band- 


ages; it was covered with a fairly thick layer of naphtha 


302 


check ache oe he hea oe ae cece cece abe oo fe oe ooo oe lec 


THE UNWRAPPING OF A MUMMY 
which had to be chiselled away. Suddenly, through 


the black remains of the natron, there flashed on the 
upper part of the breast a bright gleam of gold, and 
soon there was laid bare a thin sheet of metal, cut out 
into the shape of the sacred hawk, its wings outspread, 
its tail fanlike like that of eagles in heraldry. Upon 
this bit of gold — a funeral jewel not rich enough to 
tempt body-snatchers — had been written with a reed 
and ink a prayer to the gods, protectors of the tombs, 
asking that the heart and the viscere of the dead 
should not be removed far from her body. A beauti- 
ful microscopic hawk, which would have made a 
lovely watch-charm, was attached by a thread to a 
necklace of small plates of blue glass, to which was 
hung also a sort of amulet in the shape of a flail, made 
of turquoise-blue enamel. Some of the plates had 
become semi-opaque, no doubt owing to the heat of 
the boiling bitumen which had been poured over them, 
and then had slowly cooled. 

So far, of course, nothing unusual had been found ; 
in mummy cases there are often discovered numbers 
of these small trifles, and every curiosity shop is full of 
similar blue enamelled-ware figures; but we now came 


upon an unexpected and touchingly graceful detail. 


503 


Under each armpit of the dead woman had been placed 
a flower, absolutely colourless, like plants which have 
been long pressed between the leaves of a herbarium, 
but perfectly preserved, and to which a botanist could 
readily have assigned a name, Were they blooms of 
the lotus or the persea? No one of us could say. 
This find made me thoughtful. Who was it that had 
put these poor flowers there, like a supreme farewell, 
at the moment when the beloved body was about to 
disappear under the first rolls of bandages? Flowers 
that are three thousand years old, so frail and yet so 
eternal, make a strange impression upon one. 

There was also found amid the bandages a small 
fruit-berry, the species of which it is difficult to deter- 
mine. Perhaps it was a berry of the nepenthe, which 
brought oblivion. On a bit of stuff, carefully de- 
tached, was written within a cartouche the name of an 
unknown king belonging to a dynasty no less forgotten. 
This mummy fills up a vacant place in history and 
tells of a new Pharaoh. 

The face was still hidden under its mask of linen 
and bitumen, which could not be easily detached, for 
it had been firmly fixed by an indefinite number of 


centuries. Under the pressure of the chisel a portion 


304 


keeebebetttttttttttttetes 
THE UNWRAPPING OF A MUMMY 


gave way, and two white eyes with great black pupils 
shone with fictitious life between brown eyelids. They 
were enamelled eyes, such as it was customary to 
insert in carefully prepared mummies. The clear, 
fixed glance, gazing out of the dead face, produced 
a terrifying effect; the body seemed to behold with 
disdainful surprise the living beings that moved around 
it. The eyebrows showed quite plainly upon the 
orbit, hollowed by the sinking of the flesh. The 
nose, I must confess,—and in this respect Nes 
Khons was less pretty than ‘Tahoser,—had_ been 
turned down to conceal the incision through which 
the brain had been drawn from the skull, and a leaf 
of gold had been placed on the mouth as the seal 
of eternal silence. ‘The hair, exceedingly fine, silky, 
and soft, dressed in light curls, did not fall below 
the tops of the ears, and was of that auburn tint 
so much prized by Venetian women. It looked like 
a child’s hair dyed with henna, as one sees it in 
Algeria. I do not think that this colour was the 
natural one; Nes Khons must have been dark like 
other Egyptians, and the brown tone was doubt- 
less produced by the essences and perfumes of the 


embalmer. 


20 305 


Little by little the body began to show in its sad 
nudity. The reddish skin of the torso, as the air 
came in contact with it, assumed a bluish bloom, and 
there was visible on the side the cut through which 
had been drawn the entrails, and from which escaped, 
like the sawdust of a ripped-up doll, the sawdust 
of aromatic wood mixed with resin in grains that 
looked like colophony. ‘The arms were stretched 
out, and the bony hands with their gilded nails imi- 
tated with sepulchral modesty the gesture of the 
Venus of Medici. The feet, slightly contracted by 
the drying up of the flesh and the muscles, seemed 
to have been shapely and small, and the nails were 
gilded like those of the hand. 

What was she, after all, this Nes Khons, daughter 
of Horus and Rouaa, called Lady in her epitaph? 
Young or old, beautiful or ugly? It would be diffi- 
cult to say. She is now not much more than a skin 
covering bones, and it is impossible to discover in 
the dry, sharp lines the graceful contours of Egyptian 
women, such as we see them depicted in temples, 
palaces, and tombs. But is it not a surprising thing, 
one that seems to belong to the realm of dreams, 


to see on a table, in still appreciable shape, a being 


306 


bobbbtbeetttttettttbtbttt 
THE UNWRAPPING? OF A’ MUMMY 


which walked in the sunshine, which lived and loved 
five hundred years before Moses, two thousand years 
before Jesus Christ? For that is the age of the 
mummy which the caprice of fate drew from _ its 
cartonnage in the midst of the Universal Exposition, 


amid all the machinery of our modern civilisation. 


mii 


ig SHE railway to Cairo runs first along a nar- 

row strip of sand which separates the 

Baheirehma’adieh, or Lake of Aboukir, 
from Lake Mareotis, now filled with salt water. As 
you go towards Cairo, Lake Mareotis is on your 
right and the Lake of Aboukir on your left. The 
former stretches out like a sea between shores so low 
that they disappear, and thus make it impossible to 
estimate the size of the lake, which melts away into 
the sky on the horizon. 

The sunlight fell perpendicularly upon its smooth 
waters, and made them flash and sparkle until the 
eye was weary; in other places, the gray waters lay 
stagnant amid the gray sands, or else were of the 
dead white of tin. It would have been easy to 
believe one’s self in the Holland Polders, travelling 
along one of the sleepy inland seas. The heavens 
were as colourless as Van der Velde’s skies, and 
the travellers, who, trusting to painters, had dreamed 


of a blaze of colour, gazed with amazement upon 


308 


the che ae le he he oe he abe abe ctocde obec ce obecbe ooo ob doo 
FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIRO 


the vast extent of absolutely flat, grayish toned land, 
which in no wise recalled Egypt, at least such as 
one imagines it to be. On the side opposite Lake 
Mareotis rose, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, the 
country homes of the rich merchants of the city, of 
the government officials and of the consuls, painted 
in bright colours, sky-blue, rose or yellow, picked 
out with white, and here and there the great sails 
of boats, bound to Foueh or to Rosetta through the 
Mahmoudieh Canal, showed above the vegetation 
and seemed to be travelling on dry land. ‘This 
curious effect, which always causes surprise, is often 
met with in the neighbourhood of Leyden, Dordrecht, 
and Haarlem, and in swampy countries where the 
water lies level with the ground, and sometimes 
even, kept in by dikes, is higher than the level 
of the country by several yards. 

Where the salt water ends, the aspect of the 
country changes, not gradually, but suddenly ; on the 
one hand absolute barrenness, on the other exu- 
berant vegetation; and wherever irrigation brings a 
drop of water, plants spring up, and the sterile dust 
becomes fertile soil. “The contrast is most striking. 


We had passed Lake Mareotis, and on either side 
399 


of the railroad stretched fields of doora or maize, of 
cotton plants in various stages of growth, some open- 
ing their pretty yellow flowers, others shedding the 
white silk from their pods. Gutters full of muddy 
water rayed the black ground with lines that shone 
here and there in the light. These were fed by 
broader canals connected with the Nile. Small dikes 
of earth, easily opened with a blow of a _ pickaxe, 
dammed up:the waters until watering-time. The 
rough wheels of the sakiehs, turned by buffaloes, 
oxen, camels, or asses, raised the water to higher 
levels. Sometimes, even, two robust fellahs, perfectly 
naked, tawny and shining like Florentine bronzes, 
standing on the edge of a canal and balancing like 
a swing a basket of waterproof esparto suspended 
from two ropes of which they held the ends, skimmed 
the surface of the water and dashed it into the neigh- 
bouring field with amazing dexterity. Fellahs in 
short blue tunics were ploughing, holding the handle 
of a primitive plough drawn by a camel and a hump- 
backed Soudanese ox; others gathered cotton and 
maize; others dug ditches; others again dragged 
branches of trees by way of a harrow over the 


furrows which the inundation had scarce left. Every- 


310 


teeebebhbetettttttbbbbbbbbe 
FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIRO 


where was seen an activity not much in accord with 
the traditional Oriental idleness. 

The first fellahin villages seen on the right and 
left of the road impress one curiously. They are 
collections of huts of unbaked brick cemented with 
mud, with flat roofs occasionally topped with a sort of 
whitewashed turret for pigeons, the sloping walls of 
which faintly recall the outline of a truncated Egyptian 
pylon. A door as low as that of a tomb, and two or 
three holes pierced in the wall are the only openings in 
these huts, which look more like the work of termites 
than that of men. Often half the village — if such a 
name can be given to these earthen huts— has been 
washed away by the rains or sapped by the flood; but 
no great harm is done; with a few handfuls of mud 
the house is soon rebuilt, and five or six days of sun- 
shine suffice to make it inhabitable. 

This description, scrupulously exact, does not give 
a very attractive idea of a fellahin village; but plant by 
the side of these cubes of gray earth a clump of date 
palms, have a camel or two kneel down in front of the 
doors, which look like the mouths of warrens, let a 
woman come out from one of them draped in her long 


blue gown, holding a child by the hand and bearing a 
ait | 


EE EE ee | 


ALLL ALLLADLALAALSLLAAA ELS 
BGAN EL 


— 


jar of water on her head, light it all up with sunlight, 
and you have a charming and characteristic picture. 
The thing which strikes the most inattentive traveller 
as soon as he steps into this Lower Egypt, where from 
time immemorial the Nile has been accumulating its 
mud in thin layers, is the close intimacy of the fellah 
and the earth. Autochthone is the name that best fits 
him; he springs from the clay which he treads, he is 
made out of it, and scarce has emerged from it. He 
manipulates it, presses it as a child presses its nurse’s 
breast, to draw from its brown bosom the milk of 
fertility. He sinks waist-deep into its fertile mud, 
drains it, waters it, dries it, according to its needs; cuts 
canals in it, builds up levees upon it, draws from it the 
clay with which he constructs his family dwelling and 
with which he will cement his tomb. Never was a 
respectful son more careful of his old mother; he does 
not leave her as do those vagabond children who forsake 
their natal roof in search of adventures. He remains 
there, always attentive to the least want of his antique 
ancestor, the black earth of Kamé. If she thirsts, he 
gives her drink, if she is troubled by too much humid- 
ity, he dries it; in order not to wound her, he works 


her almost without tools, with his hands; his plough 


Bits 


LLALKEAD LSE LSE AAA AEAA LES 
FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIR 


merely scratches the telluric skin, which the inundation 
covers each year with a new epidermis. As you watch 
him going and coming upon that soaking ground, you 
feel that he is in his element. In his blue garment, 
which resembles a pontiff’s robe, he presides over the 
marriage of earth and water, he unites the two prin- 
ciples which, warmed by the sun, give birth to life. 
Nowhere is this harmony between man and the soil so 
visible; nowhere does the earth play so important a 
part. It imparts its colourto everything. The houses 
have the earth tint; the bronze complexion of the 
fellahs recalls it; the trees covered with fine dust, the 
waters laden with mud, conform to that fundamental 
harmony; the animals themselves wear its livery ; 
the dun-coloured camel, the gray ass, the slate-blue 
buffalo, the ash-coloured pigeon, and the reddish birds 
all fit in with the general tone. 

Another thing which surprises one is the animation 
visible throughout the country. On the levees along 
the canals and on those which traverse the inundated 
portions, there moves a mob of passers-by and of 
travellers. ‘There is no road so frequented in France, 
even in the neighbourhood of a populous city. Eastern 


people do not remain much in their houses, and the 


343 


hobdecbhcbhobch bebeh ok heh 
smallest pretext is sufficient for them to set forth, 
especially as they have not to think, as we have, of the 
weather; the barometer is always at set fair, and rain 
is so uncommonly rare that a man would be glad to 
get a soaking. 

There is nothing more enjoyable, more varied and 
instructive than the procession of people who are go- 
ing about their business and who show in succession 
in the opening of the carriage window, as in a frame 
in which engravings or water-colours are constantly 
changing. 

First, camels ambling along with a resigned and 
melancholy look, swinging their long necks, curious 
animals whose awkward shapes recall the attempts of a 
vanished creation. On the hump of the foremost is 
perched the turbaned driver, as majestic as Eleazar, the 
servant of Abraham, going to Mesopotamia to seek a 
wife for Isaac; he yields with lazy suppleness to the 
rough, but regular motions of the animal; sometimes 
smoking his chibouque as if he were seated at the door 
of a café, or pressing the slow pace of his steed. 
Camels like to go in single file ; they are accustomed 
to it, and five or six are usually tied together, some- 


times even more; and thus the caravan travels along, 


314 


she cte ok choo che oh oe ob oe fected esos ofecbe feeeoe do ct 
FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIRO 


showing quaint against the flat lines of the horizon, ana 
for want of any object of comparison, apparently of 
vast size. On either side of the line trot three or four 
swift-footed lads, armed with wands; for in the East 
beasts of burden never lack hostlers and whippers-in. 
Some of the camels are reddish, others sorrel, others 
brown, some even are white, but dun is the most 
frequent colour. They carry stones, wood, grass 
bound with esparto cords, bundles of sugar-cane, boxes, 
furniture, —in fact, whatever in our country would be 
loaded on carts. Just now we might have thought 
ourselves in Holland as we passed along those gray 
stretches of submerged ground, but the illusion is soon 
dispelled; as the camel swings along the canal bank, 
you feel that you are approaching Cairo, and not 
Amsterdam. 

Next come horsemen, bestriding thin, but spirited 
horses; droves of small donkeys, their masters perched 
on their cruppers, almost on their tails, their legs almost 
touching the ground, ready to be used in case the 
tricky animal falls or jibs, or even indulges, as it often 
does, in a roll in the dust of the road. In the East 
the ass is neither contemned nor considered ridiculous 


as it is in France; it has preserved its Homeric and 


S15 


biblical nobility, and every one bestrides it without 
hesitation, the rich and the poor, the old and the 
young, women as well as men. 

Now along the canal comes a charming group: a 
young woman robed in a long blue mantle, the folds 
of which fall chastely around her, is seated upon an ass 
which a man, still vigorous but whose beard is already 
streaked with gray and white hairs, leads carefully. 
In front of the mother, who supports it with one hand, 
is a naked child, exquisitely beautiful, happy and de- 
lighted at his trip. It is a picture of the Flight into 
Egypt; the figures lack nothing but a fine golden 
halo around their heads. ‘The Virgin, the Child Jesus, 
and Saint Joseph must have looked like that, and so 
must their flight have been in the living and simple 
reality ; their equipage was not much finer. What a 
pity that some great painter, Perugino, Raphael, or 
Albert Durer, does not happen to be here. 

Damanhir, which the railroad traverses, looks very 
much as must have looked the ancient cities of Egypt, 
now buried under the sand or fallen into dust. It is 
surrounded by sloping walls built of unbaked bricks or 
of pisé which preserves its earthy colour. The flat- 


roofed houses rise one above another like a collection 


316 


whe che oe abs bl als ole cls afl ole abe boobs obo obe obs olla ole elle ale ole ole cb ob 
FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIRO 


of cubes dotted with little black holes. A few dove- 
cotes, the cupolas of which are whitewashed, and one 
or two minarets striped with red and white, alone im- 
part to the antique appearance of that city the modern 
aspect of Islamism. On the top of the terraces 
women, squatting on mats or standing in their long 
robes of brilliant colours, are looking at us, no doubt 
attracted by the passing of the train. As they show 
against the sky, they are wondrously elegant and 
graceful. They look like statues erected on the top 
of buildings or the front of temples. 

The moment the train stopped, it was invaded by a 
band of women and children, offering fresh water, 
bitter oranges, and honey confections to the travellers; 
and it was delightful to see these brown faces showing 
at the carriage window their bright smile and their 
white teeth. I should have liked to remain some 
time in Damanhir, but travel, like life, is made up 
of sacrifices. How many delightful things one is 
compelled to leave by the roadside, if one wishes to 
reach the end. A man cannot see everything, and 
must be satisfied with seeing a few things. So I had 
to leave Damanhir and to behold that dream from 


afar without being able to traverse it. As far as | 


Sy, 


could see, even through my glass, the land reached to 
the horizon line, intersected by canals, broken by gut- 
ters, shimmering with pools of water, with scattered 
clumps of sycamore trees and date palms, with long 
strips of cultivated ground, water-wheels rising here 
and there, and enlivened by the incessant coming and 
going of the labourers who followed, on the backs of 
camels, horses, or asses, or on foot, the narrow road 
bordering the levees. At intervals there arose, under 
the shade of a mimosa, the white cupola of a tomb; 
sometimes a nude child stood motionless on the edge 
of the water in the attitude of unconscious reverie, not 
even turning his head to see the train fly along. This 
deep gravity in childhood is peculiar to the East. 
What could that boy, standing on his lump of earth 
as a Stylites on his pillar, be thinking of ? From time 
to time flocks of pigeons, busy feeding, flew off with a 
sudden whir as the train passed by, and alighted farther 
away on the plain; aquatic birds swam swiftly through 
the reeds that outstretched behind them, pretty wag- 
tails hopped about, wagging their tails, on the crest of 
the levees ; and in the heavens at a vast height, soared 
hawks, falcons, and gerfalcons, sweeping in great cir- 


cles. Buffaloes wallowed in the mud of the ditches, 


318 


[a anEntaneEnenenaneneeS 


CFO CFO Fe ove Te Fe VTS wie wise 


FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIRO 


and flocks of black sheep with hanging ears, very like 
goats, were hurrying along driven by the shepherds. 
The antique simplicity of the costume of the young 
herdsmen, with their short tunics, white or blue, faded 
by the sun, their bare legs, their dusty, naked feet, 
their felt caps, their crooks, recalled the patriarchal 
scenes of the Bible. 

At the next station we stopped, and I got out to have 
a look at the landscape. I had scarcely gone a few 
steps when a wondrous sight met my astonished eyes: 
before me was the Nile, old Hapi, to give it its ancient 
Egyptian name, the inexhaustible Father of Waters. 
Through one of those involuntary plastic impressions 
which act upon the imagination, the Nile called up to 
my mind the colossal marble god in one of the lower 
halls of the Louvre, carelessly leaning on his elbow 
and, with paternal kindliness, allowing himself to be 
climbed over by the little children which represent 
cubits, and the various phases of the inundation. Well, 
it was not under this mythological aspect that the great 
river appeared to me for the first time. It was flow- 
ing in flood, spreading out broadly like a torrent of 
reddish mud which scarcely looked like water as it 


swelled and rushed by irresistibly. It looked like a 
319 


river of soil; scarcely did the reflection of the sky 
imprint here and there upon the gloomy surface of its 
tumultuous waves a few light touches of azure. It 
was still almost at the height of its rise, but the flood 
had the tranquil power of a regular phenomenon, and 
not the convulsive disorder of a scourge. “The maj- 
esty of that vast sheet of water laden with fertilising 
mud produces an almost religious impression. How 
many vanished civilisations have been reflected for a 
time in that ever-flowing wave! I remained absorbed 
as 1 gazed at it, sunk in thought, and feeling that 
strange sinking of the heart which one experiences 
after desire has been fulfilled, and reality has taken the 
place of the dream. What I was looking at was in- 
deed the Nile, the real Nile, the river which I had so 
often endeavoured to discover by intuition. A sort of 
stupor nailed me to the bank, and yet it was a very 
natural thing that I should come across the Nile in 
Egypt in the very centre of the Delta. But man is 
subject to such artless astonishment. 

Dhahabiyehs and feltfikas spreading their great lateen 
sails were tacking across the river, passing from one 
shore to the other, and recalling the shape of the mystic 


baris of the times of the Pharaohs. 


320 


FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIRO 


We set out again. ‘The aspect of the country was 
still the same; fields of cotton, maize, doora, stretched 
as far as the eye could reach. Here and there glim- 
mered the portions of the ground covered by the flood. 
Slate-blue buffaloes wallowed in the pools and emerged 
covered with mud; water birds stood along the edges, 
and sometimes flew off as the train passed, watched 
by families of fellahs, squatting on the banks of the 
ditches. Along the road travelled the endless pro- 
cession of camels, asses, oxen, black goats, and foot- 
passengers, which enlivened to such an extent that 
peaceful, flat landscape. I had already noticed when 
in Holland the additional importance given to figures 
by a flat country ; the lack of hills makes them stand 
out, and as they usually show against the sky they loom 
larger. I seemed to see pass by the zones of painted 
bassi-relievi representing agricultural scenes which occa- 
sionally formed part of the decoration of the halls of 
Egyptian tombs. Here and there rose villages or 
farms, the lines of whose sloping, earth-gray walls 
recalled the substructures of antique temples. Groups 
of sycamore and mimosa trees, set off by clumps 
of date palms, brought out the soft tones of the 


walls by the contrast of their rich verdure. Elsewhere 


21 321 


5 Sati — Sta — Si Doel — Soest — Salish — Sond — Seal — Sertoli — Soe — lind — Srntlinnd — tint — fortis —3 


I caught sight of fellahin huts surmounted by white- 
washed dovecotes, placed side by side like beehives 
or the minarets of a mosque. We soon reached 
Tantah, a somewhat important town, to which the fine 
mosque of Seyd Ahmed Badouy attracts pilgrims twice 
a year, and the fairs of which are frequented by the 
caravans. 

Tantah, from the railway station, —for the train 
does not stop long enough to allow travellers to visit 
the town, — has an animated and picturesque aspect. 
Amid the houses in the Arab style with their look-outs 
and their awnings, rise buildings in that Oriental- 
Italian style dear to persons of progress and of modern 
ideas, painted in soft colours, ochre, salmon, or sky- 
blue; flat-roofed clay huts; over all, the minarets of 
the mosque, the white cupolas of a few tombs, and the 
inevitable fig trees and palms rising above the low 
garden walls. Between the town and the station 
stretches waste ground, a sort of fair-ground, on which 
are camps, huts of reed or of date-palm branches, 
tents formed of old rags of cloth and sometimes of the 
linen of an unrolled turban. ‘The inhabitants of these 
frail dwellings cook in the open air. The coffee is 


made, a cup at a time, in a small brass kettle, and on 


222 


che oe oe beak abe oh oe oe ae ke trateokot c bofe feeb oe fe abe 


ove 


Peo MEP NORTA TO ecATRO 


plates of tin are cooked the thin doora cakes. The 
fuel is camel’s-dung. ‘The fellahs suck eagerly the 
sweetish juice of the sugar-cane cut into short pieces, 
and the slices of watermelon show within the green 
skin their ripe, rosy, flesh, spotted with black seeds. 
Women, as graceful as statues, come and go, holding 
the end of their veil between their teeth so as to con- 
ceal one half of the face, and bearing on their heads 
Theban jars or copper vases; while the men, squatting 
on the ground or on small carpets, their knees up te 
their chins, forming an acute angle like the legs of 
locusts, in an attitude which no European could assume, 
and recalling the judges of Amenti ranged in rows one 
behind another on the papyri of funeral rituals, pre- 
serve that dreamy immobility so dear to Orientals 
when they have nothing to do; for to move about 
merely for exercise, as Christians do, strikes them as 
utter folly. 

Dromedaries, alone or grouped in circles, kneeling 
under their burdens, stretch out their long legs on the 
sand, motionless in the burning sun. Asses, some of 
which are daintily harnessed, with saddles of red 
morocco rising in a boss on the withers, and with 


headstalls adorned with tufts, and others with an old 


Ba 


LALLEALAALLLLALAL ALL ALLL LLY 
Bitsy) PE 


carpet for a saddle-cloth, were waiting for the travellers 
who were to stop at Tantah to bear them from the 
station to the town. ‘The donkey drivers, clothed in 
short blue and white tunics, bare-armed and bare- 
legged, their heads covered with a fez, a wand in their 
hand, and resembling the slender figures of shepherds 
or youths which are so exquisitely drawn on the bodies 
of Greek vases, stood near their animals in an indolent 
attitude, which they abandoned as soon as a chance 
customer came their way. ‘Then they indulged in mad 
gesticulations, guttural cries, and fought with each 
other until the unfortunate tourist ran the risk of being 
torn to pieces or stripped of the best part of his gar- 
ments. Tawny, wandering dogs with jackal ears, fallen 
indeed from their old position, and forgetting apparently 
that they counted Anubis, the dog-headed Anubis latra- 
tor, among their ancestors, passed in and out among the 
groups, but without taking the least interest in what 
was going on. 

The bonds which in Europe unite the dog to 
man do not exist in the East; its social instinct has 
not been developed, its sympathies have not been 
appealed to; it has no master, and lives in a savage 


state. No services are asked of it, and it is not cared 


324. 


che cde feo ce oe oe oe ae ected eee oe oe ee ebro abe dob 


ore OFS OTS OFS CFO CTO OTE CFS BIO VIS WIE 


PROM AER ERXANDRIA DOM CAIRO 


for; it has no home and dwells in holes which it 
makes, unless it stays in some open tomb; no one 
feeds it ; it hunts for itself, gorging on dead bodies and 
unnamable débris. There is a proverb which says that 
wolves do not eat each other; Eastern dogs are less 
scrupulous; they readily devour their sick, wounded, or 
dead companions. It seemed strange to me to see dogs 
which did not make any advances to me, and did not 
seek to be caressed, but maintained a proud and melan- 
choly reserve. 

Little girls in blue gowns and little negroes in white 
tunics came up to the carriages, offering pastry, cakes, 
bitter oranges, lemons, and apples, — yes, apples. 
Eastern people seem to be very fond of that acid 
Northern fruit which, along with wretched, granulous 
pears, forms part of every dessert, at which of course 
one never gets either pomegranates, or bananas, or 
dates, or oranges, or purple figs, or any native fruits, 
which are no doubt left to the common people. 

The whistle of the engine sounded, and we were 
again carried away through that very humid and very 
green Delta. However, as we advanced there showed 
on the horizon lines of rosy land from which vegetable 


life was wholly absent. The sand of the desert 


CRP) 


advances with its waves, as sterile as those of the sea, 
eternally disturbed by the winds and beating upon the 
islet of cultivated earth surrounded and stormed by 
dusty foam, as upon a reef which it endeavours to 
cover up. In Egypt, whatever lies above the level of 
the flood is smitten with death. ‘There is no transi- 
tion; where stops Osiris, Typhon begins; here luxu- 
riant vegetation, there not a blade of grass, not a bit of 
moss, not a single one of the adventurous plants which 
grow in solitary and lonely places, — nothing but 
ground-up sandstone without any mixture of loam. 
But if a drop of Nile water falls upon it, straightway 
the barren sand is covered with verdure. ‘These strips 
of pale salmon-colour form a pleasant contrast with 
the rich tints of the great plain of verdure spread out 
before us. 

Soon we came upon another arm of the Nile, the 
Phatnitic branch, which flows into the sea near Dami- 
etta. It is crossed by the railway, and on the other 
side lie the ruins of ancient Athrebys, over which has 
been built a fellahin village. ‘The train sped along, 
and soon on the right, above the line of green, turning 
almost black in the dazzling light, showed in the azure 


distance the triangular silhouette of the pyramids of 


326 


tooo beak oe a oe oe oe be abe ctecbe eee doe oe eee be choc 


ewe oe os HS OID Wie wie 


FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIRO 


Cheops and Chephren, appearing, from where I first 
beheld them, like a single mountain with a piece taken . 
out of the summit. “The marvellous clearness of the 
atmosphere made them appear nearer, and had I not 
been aware of the real distance I should have found it 
difficult to estimate it correctly. It is quite natural to 
catch sight of the pyramids as one approaches Cairo ; 
it is to be expected and it is expected, yet the sight 
causes extraordinary emotion and surprise. It is im- 
possible to describe the effect produced by that vapor- 
ous outline so faint that it almost melts into the 
colour of the sky, and that, if one had not been 
forewarned, it might escape notice. Neither years 
nor barbarians have been able to overthrow these 
artificial mountains, the most gigantic monuments, 
except, perhaps, the Tower of Babel, ever raised by 
man. For five thousand years they have been stand- 
ing there,— almost as old as the world, according’ to 
the biblical account. Even our own civilisation, with 
its powerful methods of destruction, could scarcely 
manage to tear them down. ‘The pyramids have seen 
ages and dynasties flow by like billows of sand, and the 
colossal Sphinx with its noseless face ever smiles at their 


feet with its ironical and mysterious smile. Even after 


327 


they were opened they kept their secret, and yielded 
up but the bones of oxen by the side of an empty 
sarcophagus. Eyes that have been closed so long that 
Europe, perchance, had not emerged from the flood 
when those eyes beheld the light, gazed upon them 
from where I am; they are contemporaneous with 
vanished empires, with strange races of men since swept 
from the surface of the earth; they have beheld civil- 
isations that we know nothing of; heard spoken the 
tongues which men seek to make out in hieroglyphics, 
known manners which would appear to us as strange 
asadream. ‘They have been there so long that the 
stars have changed their places, and they belong to 
a past so prodigiously fabulous that behind them 
the dawn of the world seems to shine. 

While these thoughts flashed through my mind 
we were rapidly approaching Cairo, — Cairo, of which 
I had talked so often with poor Gérard de Nerval, 
with Gustave Flaubert, and Maxime Du Camp, whose 
tales had excited my curiosity to the highest pitch. 
In the case of cities which one has desired to see 
from childhood, and which one has long inhabited 
in dreams, one is apt to conceive a fantastic notion 


which it is very difficult to efface, even in presence of 


328 


dock ke abe oh oh eke eae detect cb chee cbecece ofe ee 


wre FO Fe UFO One Sie Vite wTe ese 


FROM ALEXANDRIA TO CAIRO 


reality. The sight of an engraving, of a picture, often 
forms a starting-point. My Cairo, built out of the 
materials of the ‘¢’ Thousand and One Nights,” cen- 
tred around the Ezbekiyeh Place, the strange painting 
of which Marilhat had sent from Egypt to one of the 
first exhibitions which followed the Revolution of July. 
Unless I am mistaken, it was his first picture, and 
whatever the perfection which he afterwards attained, 
I do not believe that he ever painted a work fuller of 
life, more individual, and more striking. It made a 
deep and curious impression upon me; I went time 
and again to see it; I could not take my eyes off it, 
and it exercised upon me a sort of nostalgic fascination. 
It was from that painting that my dreams started upon 
fantastic trips through the narrow streets of ancient 
Cairo once traversed by Caliph Haroun al Raschid 
and his faithful vizier Jaffer, under the disguise of 
slaves or common people. My admiration for the 
painting was so well known that Marilhat’s family 
gave me, after the death of the famous artist, the 
pencil sketch of the subject made on the spot, and 
which he had used as a study for the finished work. 

And now we had arrived. A great mob of car- 


riages, asses, donkey drivers, porters, guides, drago- 


By os, 


SI RA RR A 


mans, rioted in front of the railway station, which: 
is at Boulah, a short distance from old Cairo. When 
we had recovered our luggage, and I had been installed 
with my friend in a handsome open carriage preceded 
by a sais, it was with secret delight that I heard the 
Egyptian providence which watched over us in its 
Nizam uniform and its magenta fez, call out to the 
coachman, ‘“ Hotel Shepheard, Ezbekiyeh Place.” I 


was going to lodge in my dream. 


A5m 


ole obo obs obs oe obs able obs abe ole obs able cle oe ole abe obs ole obs obs che oe obs obo 


VR WTO We CTO CFO OVO WHS CTO CFO STO BTS Vd VTS OTE OTe WTO OTe OTS HY 


ZBEKIY RH! SOUARE 
ely 


= = = —~ oe = = = = poof i = — 


EZBEKIYEH SQUARE 


FEW minutes later the carriage stopped be- 
A fore the steps of the Hotel Shepheard, which 
has a sort of veranda provided with chairs 
and sofas for the convenience of travellers who desire 
to enjoy the cool air. We were received cordially, 
and given a fine:room, very high-ceiled, with two beds 
provided with mosquito-nets, and a window looking out 
upon the Ezbekiyeh Square. 

I did not expect to find Marilhat’s painting before 
me, unchanged, and merely enlarged to the proportions 
of reality. The accounts of tourists who had recently 
returned from Egypt had made me aware that the 
Ezbekiyeh no longer looked the same as formerly, when 
the waters of the Nile turned it into a lake in times of 
flood, and when it still preserved its true Arab character. 

Huge mimosas and sycamores fill up the centre of 
the square with domes of foliage so intensely green 
that it looks almost black. On the left rises a row of 
houses, among which are to be seen, side by side with 
the newer buildings, old Arab dwellings more or less 


modernised. <A great number of moucharabiehs had 


I 


aioe 


teteetteeetetettttttt ttt 
r 

disappeared. There remains a sufficient number of 

them, however, to preserve the Oriental character of 

this side of the square. 

Above the trees on the other side of the square, 
higher than the line of the roofs, are seen four or five 
minarets, the shafts of which, built in courses alter- 
nately blue and red, stand out against the azure sky. 
On the right the scarps of Mokattam, of a rosy 
gray, show their bare sides, on which no vegetation 
is apparent. The trees of the square conceal the 
newer buildings, and thus my dream was not too 
much upset. 

Being an invalid, I had to be somewhat careful, 
and required two or three days of complete rest. If 
the reader is fond of travel, he will understand how 
great was my desire to begin exploring that labyrinth 
of picturesque streets in which swarms a vari-coloured 
crowd, but it was out of the question for the time 
being. I thought that Cairo, more complaisant in 
this respect than the mountain to the prophet, would 
come to me if I could not go to it, and as a matter 
of fact, Cairo was polite enough to do so. 

While my luckier companions started to visit the 


city, I settled myself on the veranda. It was the 


334 


abe obs obs obs obs aby abe obs abe oe obs nbn chs che os obs obs ob obo be oe of ole ole 


Te eS eTe OFS ae eFo OTS OTe 


EZBEKIYEH SQUARE 


best place I could have chosen, for even leaving out 
the people on the Square, the veranda roof sheltered 
many curious characters. “There were dragomans, 
most of them Greeks or Copts, wearing the fez and 
a short, braided jacket and full trousers; cavasses 
richly costumed in oriental fashion, scimetar on the 
hip, fandjar in the belt, and silver-topped cane in the 
hand; native servants in white drawers and blue or 
pink gowns; little negroes, bare-armed and_bare- 
legged, dressed in short tunics striped with brilliant 
colours; dealers selling kuffiyehs, gandouras, and 
oriental stuffs manufactured in Lyons, photographic 
views of Egypt and of Cairo, or pictures of national 
types, —to say nothing of the travellers themselves, 
who, having come from all parts of the world, certainly 
deserved to be looked at. 

Opposite the hotel, on the other side of the road, 
stood in the shade of the mimosas the carriages placed 
at the disposal of the invited guests by the splendid 
hospitality of the Khedive. An inspector, blind in 
one eye, with a turban rolled around his head and 
wearing a long blue caftan, called them up and gave 
the drivers the orders of the travellers. There also 


stood the battalion of donkey drivers with their long- 


333 


eared steeds. J am told that there are no less than 
eighty thousand donkeys in Cairo. ‘That number does 
not seem to be exaggerated. There are donkeys at 
every corner, around every mosque, and in the most 
deserted places there suddenly appear from behind a 
wall a donkey driver and a donkey that place them- 
selves at. your service. [hese asses are very pretty, 
spirited, and bright-tempered; they have not the pite- 
ous look and the air of melancholy resignation of 
the asses of our own country, which are ill fed, beaten, 
and contemned. ‘You feel that they think as much 
of themselves as other animals do, and that they are 
not the whole day long a butt for stupid jokes. Per- 
haps they are aware that Homer compared Ajax to 
an ass, a comparison which is ridiculous in the West ; 
and they also remember that one of their ancestors 
bore Miriam, the Virgin Mother of Issa, under the 
sycamore of Matarich. ‘Their coat varies from dark- 
brown to white, through all the shades of dun and 
gray. Some have white stars and fetlocks. The 
handsomest are clipped with ingenious coquetry so as 
to make around the legs patterns which make them 
look as if they were wearing open-worked stock- 


ings. When they are white, the end of the tail and 


334 


abe obs ols ols oll aby obs abe ob 


we os OFS Fo WHE oe CFE oie 


EZBEKIYEH SQUARE 


the mane are dyed with henna. Of course this is 
only in the case of thorough-bred animals, of the 
aristocracy of the asinine race, and is not indulged in 
with the common herd. | 
Their harness consists of a headstall adorned with 
tresses, tufts of silk and wool, sometimes coral beads 
or copper plates, and of a morocco saddle, usually 
red, rising up in front to prevent falls, but without any 
cantle. ‘Ihe saddle is placed upon a piece of carpet 
or striped stuff, and is fastened by a broad girth which 
passes diagonally under the animal’s tail like a crupper- 
strap; another girth fastens the saddle-cloth, and two 
short stirrups flap against the animal’s sides. The 
harness is more or less rich according to the means 
of the donkey driver and the rank of his customers, 
but I am speaking merely of asses which stand for 
hire. No one in Cairo considers it undignified to 
ride an ass, — old men, grown men, dignitaries, towns- 
people, all use them. Women ride astride, a fashion 
which in no wise compromises their modesty, thanks 
to the enormous folds of their broad trousers which 
almost completely conceal their feet. They often 
carry before them, placed upon the saddle-bow, a 


small, half-nude child which they steady with one 


335 


hand while with the other they hold the bridle. It is 
usually women of importance who indulge in this 
luxury, for the poor fellahin women have no other 
means of locomotion than their little feet. These 
beauties, as we may suppose them to be, since they 
are masked more closely than society ladies at the 
Opera ball, wear over their garments a habbarah, a 
sort of black taffeta sack, which fills with air and 
swells in the most ungraceful fashion if the animal’s 
pace is quickened. 

In the East a rider, whether on horseback or on an 
ass, 1s always accompanied by two or three footmen. 
One runs on ahead with a wand in his hand to clear 
the way, the second holds the animal’s bridle, and the 
third hangs on by its tail, or at least puts his hand on 
the crupper. Sometimes there is a fourth who flits 
about and stirs up the animal with a switch. Every 
minute Decamp’s “Turkish Patrol,’ that startling 
painting which made such a sensation in the Exhibition 
of 1831, passed before me, amid a cloud of dust, and 
made me smile; but no one appeared to notice the 
comicality of the situation: a stout man dressed in 
white with a broad belt around his waist, perched on a 


little ass and followed by three or four poor devils, 


336 


shee a abe ob oe be oof dee beac lobe fo doa of cee 


EZBEKIYEH SQUARE 


ib 


thin and tanned, with hungry mien, who through 
excess of zeal and in hope of backshish, seem to carry 
along the rider and his steed. 

I must be forgiven all this information about the 
asses and their drivers, but these occupy so large a 
space in life at Cairo that they are entitled to the 


importance which they really possess. 


22 Shy 


eh ob ote abe abe oy che obs che ols ch cblocle ols obo obs elo of of eboche wie we ee 
mGY Pa 
te ote ab ob obs obs obs obs abe abe able olla cbe obs obs obs obs obs obs ol obs abe abouts 


ACN GAD BEN Do BG Bae 


HE solemn title must not terrify the reader. 

M. Ernest Feydeau’s book is, in spite of 

its title, most attractive reading. In his 

case science does not mean weariness, as happens too 
often. The author of “ Funeral Customs and Sepul- 
ture among the Ancient Nations ”’ desired to be under- 
stood of all, and everybody may profit by his long and 
careful researches. He has not sealed his work with 
seven seals, as if it were an apocalyptic volume, to be 
understood by adepts only; he has sought clearness, 
distinctness, colour, and he has given to archeology 
the plastic form which it almost always lacks. What 
is the use of heaping together materials in disorder, 
stones which are not made to form part of a building, 
colours which are not turned into pictures? What 
does the public, for whom, after all, books are meant, 
get out of so many obscure works, cryptic dissertations, 
deep researches, with which learned authors seem to 
mask entrances, as the ancient Egyptians — the com- 
parison is a proper one here — masked the entrances 


to their tombs and their mummy pits so that no one 


338 


ook cb clock ch debe debe aah cbecbech cbecde deeds 


WS Oe Oe CFs one re cio 670! eps ete) ons COlGTS OF OFe ere cee Gia eke ens Use wie Sue ei 


ANC TR Livi GY Pa 


might penetrate into them? What is the use of cary- 
ing in darkness endless panels of hieroglyphs which no 
eye is to behold and the key to which one keeps for 
one’s self? M. Ernest Feydeau is bold enough to desire 
to be an artist as well as a scholar; for picturesqueness 
in no wise detracts from accuracy, though erudites gen- 
erally affect to believe the contrary. Did not Augustin 
Thierry draw his intensely living, animated, dramatic, 
and yet thoroughly. true “Stories of the Merovingian 
Times” from the colourless, diffuse, ill-composed his- 
tory of Gregory of Tours? Did not Sauval’s unread- 
able work become “ Notre-Dame de Paris ” in Victor 
Hugo’s hands? Did not Walter Scott, by his novels, 
Shakespeare by his dramas, render the greatest services 
to history by giving life to dead chronicles, by putting 
into flesh and blood heroes on whom forgetfulness had 
scattered its dust in the solitude of libraries? Does 
any one suppose that the chroniclers of the future will 
not consult Balzac to advantage, and look upon his 
work as a precious mine of documents? How great 
would be the interest excited by a similar account, 
domestic, intimate and familiar, by a Greek or a 
Roman author? We can have some idea of this from 


the fragments of Petronius and the Tales of Apuleius, 


a fehe, 


which tell us more about life in the days of antiquity 
than the gravest writers, who often forget men while 
dwelling upon facts. 

In an essay on the history of manners and customs 
which forms the introduction to his book, M. Ernest 
Feydeau has discussed this question of colour applied 
to science with much spirit, logic, and eloquence. He 
proves that it is possible, without falling into novel 
writing, without indulging in imaginativeness, and 
while preserving the gravity and the authority of his- 
tory, to group around facts, by the intelligent reading 
of texts, by the study and the comparison of the monu- 
ments, the manners, the customs, the books of vanished 
races, to show man at a particular time, to put as a 
background to each event the landscape, the city, or 
the interior in which it occurred, and in the conqueror’s 
hand the weapon which he really carried. Ideas have 
forms, events take place amid certain surroundings, 
individuals wear costumes which archeology, properly 
understood, can restore to them. ‘That is its proper 
task. History draws the outline with a graver, archae- 
ology must fill it in with colour. Understood in this 
way, history makes the past present. The innovating 


archeologist, by an apparently paradoxical inspiration, 


340 


rei nse are rare a et ooo 


eres a 


ens ote wt wie 


che obs obs ohn cbr abrclle obs obs obs ob obs obeobe che ofp cho obs 
ANI REIN ED ehiG Y Bi 


has asked of death the secret of life ; he has studied 


ofr ohe le obs of 


the tomb, which has yielded up to him not only the 
mysteries of destruction, but the customs and the 
national life of all the nations of antiquity. The 
sepulchre has faithfully preserved what the memory of 
man has forgotten and what has been lost in scattered 
libraries. “The tomb alone, opening its sombre lips, 
has replied to the questions of to-day; it knows what 
historians do not know; it is impartial, and has no 
interest in lying, apart from the innocent imposture of 
the epitaph. Each generation, as it sinks forever 
under the ground, after having lived and moved for a 
few moments on its surface,.inscribes upon the walls 
of its funeral dwelling the true expression of its acts, 
its beliefs, its customs, its arts, its luxuries, its individu- 
ality, all that was seen then and that shall never again 
be seen, and then the hand of man rolls boulders, the 
desert heaps up sand, the waters of the stream deposit 
mud upon the forgotten entrance to the necropolis. 
The pits are filled up, the subterranean passages are 
effaced, the tombs sink and disappear under the dust of 
empires. A thousand, two thousand, three thousand, 
four thousand years pass by, and a lucky stroke of the 


pick reveals a whole nation within a coffin. 


341 


The ancients, differing in this respect from the 
moderns, spent their life in preparing their last dwell- 
ing. The history of their funerals contains, therefore, 
the germ of their whole history. But that history, full 
of intimate details, mysterious facts, and documents at 
times enigmatical, is not to be written like the other 
form of history which men are satisfied to repeat from 
age to age. It is amazing how many years the 
author had to spend in study and research in order to 
write his book, to bring together his materials, to 
analyse and to compare them. 

After having clearly defined what he means by 
archeology, the author enters upon his _ subject. 
Going back to the beginnings of the world, he depicts 
the amazement and the grief of man when for the 
first time he saw his fellow-man die. The entrance 
on earth of that unknown and terrible power which 
has since been called death is solemn and tragical. 
The body is lying there motionless and cold amid 
its brethren, who are amazed at the sleep which they 
cannot break, at the livid pallor and the stiffness of 
the limbs. Horror succeeds surprise when the signs 
of decomposition become visible. The body is con- 


cealed under leaves, under stones heaped up within 


342 


We abn obs ols obs oly obs alls obs abe abn cbr ebs obo ole ol ola obs cll ole clle ols cle of 


om ONO ate CFS aie CHO O50 CTD WTS CIO CTO Cie wie CIS OTe CIS WE UD Vi iw 


AN GEREN eH GY Bie 


caverns, and each one wonders with terror whether 
that death is an exceptional case, or whether the same 
fate awaits every one in a more or less distant future. 
Deaths become more numerous as the primitive family 
grows older, and at last the conviction comes that it is 
an inevitable fate. “he remembrance of the ancestors, 
the apparition of their ghosts: in the wonders of 
dreams, the anxiety as to the fate of the soul after 
the destruction of the body, give rise, along with the 
presentiment of another life, to the first idea of God. 
Death teaches eternity and proves irrefragably the 
existence of a power superior to that of man. The 
belief in metempsychosis, in the migration of the soul, 
in other spheres, in reward and punishment according 
to the works done by men in the flesh, arose among 
nations in accordance with the degree of civilisation 
which they had attained. Among the least civilised 
these doctrines exist in a state of confusion, remain 
vague, uncouth, surcharged with superstition and 
peculiarities. Nevertheless, everywhere the mystery 
of the tomb is venerated. 

It may be affirmed that no nation was so pre- 
occupied with death as ancient Egypt. It is a strange 
sight to behold that people preparing its tomb from 


343 


childhood, refusing to yield up its dust to the ele- 
ments, and struggling against destruction with invin- 
cible obstinacy. Just as the layers of Nile mud have 
overlaid one another since the birth of time, the 
generations of Egypt are ranged in order at the 
bottom of the mummy pits of the hypogea and 
the pyramids of the’ necropolis, their bodies intact 
—for the worm of the tomb dare not attack them, 
repelled as it is by the bitter bituminous odours. But 
for the sacrilegious devastations of man, that dead 
people would be found complete, and its numberless 
multitudes might cover the earth. Imagination is 
staggered when it attempts to calculate the probable 
numbers ; if Egyptian civilisation had lasted ten cen- 
turies longer, the dead would have ended by expelling 
the living from their native land. The necropolis 
would have invaded the city, and the stark mummies 
in their bandages would have stood up by the wall 
of the hearth. 

You cannot have forgotten the marvellous chapter 
on “A Bird’s-eye view of Paris,” an amazing res- 
toration by a poet, in which archeology itself, in 
spite of the progress it has made, would find it diffi- 
cult to discover a flaw. Well, what Victor Hugo 


344 


betebetettetettbtttttteeet 


owe 


ACN CAGE NG a? BG’ Y (Pa 


has done for medizval Paris, M. Ernest Feydeau has 
attempted for the Thebes of the Pharaohs, and his 
restoration, as complete as it is possible for it to 
be, and which no historian had attempted, stands out 
before us as sharply as a plan in relief, and with 
all the perspective of a panorama. ‘Thebes of the 
Hundred Gates, as Homer called it, — antiquity has 
told us nothing more about this ancestress of capi- 
tals; but M. Ernest Feydeau takes us walking with 
him through the city of Rameses; he shows us all 
its monuments, its temples, its palaces, the dwellings 
of the inhabitants, the gardens, the harbour, the fleet 
of vessels; he draws and colours the costumes of 
the people; he enters the harems, and shows us 
the travelling musicians, the dancers, the enslaved 
nations which built for the Egyptians, the soldiers 
manoeuvring on the parade ground, the processions 
of Ammon, the foreign peoples which come seeking 
refuge and corn, the caravans of thirty-five hundred 
years ago bringing in the tribute. ‘Then he describes 
the colleges of priests, the quarters inhabited by the 
embalmers, the minutest details of the embalming 
processes, the funeral rites, the construction of the 


thousands of hypogea and mummy pits which are 


345 


to receive the mummies. Finally he shows us, pass- 
ing through the streets of that strange city, the funeral 
procession of a royal scribe upon its catafalque, drawn 
by oxen, —the numberless mourners, the hosts of ser- 
vants bearing alms and offerings. I regret that the 
length of that passage does not allow of my quoting 
it in full and enabling the reader to mark the union 
of a beautiful style with scientific knowledge. Un- 
questionably no modern traveller has ever given a 
more picturesque description of any existing city, 
Constantinople, Rome, or Cairo. The artist seems 
to be seated upon the terrace of a palace, drawing 
and painting from nature as if he were a contem- 
porary of Rameses, and as if the sands had not 
covered with their shroud, through which show a 
few gigantic ruins, the city forever vanished. And 
yet he indulges in no chance supposition, in no rash 
padding. Every detail he gives is supported by the 
most authentic documents. M. Ernest Feydeau put 
aside every doubtful piece of information and_ all 
that appeared susceptible of being interpreted in more 
than one way. He seems to have been anxious to 
forestall the suspicious mistrust of scholars, who 


object to having the dry results of erudition clothed 


346 


che toate oh oe oh oe ae ch oleae cece ce cb cba oe fee ae abe shee 


AN GN es 2 Gs Y Poe 


in poetic language, and who do not believe that a 
treatise on archeology can possibly be read with as 
much interest as a novel. 

As I have said, the Egyptians have left us no 
books, and had they done so the art of decipher- 
ing hieroglyphics or even phonetic or demotic writ- 
ing is not yet assured enough to allow of absolute 
trust being put in it. Happily the Egyptians per- 
formed a work of such mightiness that it amazes 
the beholder. By the side of the hieroglyphic in- 
scriptions they carved on the walls of palaces and 
temples, on the sides of pylons, the faces of the cor- 
ridors and the bays of funeral chambers, on the faces 
of the sarcophagi and on the stele, on the covers 
and the interior cartonnages of the mummies, — in 
short, on every smooth surface of rock, whether 
sandstone or granite, basalt or porphyry, with an in- 
effaceable line coloured with tints that the long suc- 
cession of ages has not faded, — scenes in which we 
find in detail the habits and customs and the ceremo- 
nies of the oldest civilisation in the world. It seems 
as if those strange and mysterious people, foresee- 
ing the difficulty which posterity would experience in 


deciphering their hieroglyphics, intrusted their trans- 


Say. 


lation to drawing, and made the hypogea tell the secret 
kept by the papyri. 

Royal ceremonies, triumphal entries, the payments 
of tribute, all the incidents of military life, of agricul- 
ture, sport, fishing, banqueting, dances, the intimate life 
of the harem, all is reproduced in these endless paint- 
ings, so clearly drawn, with the difference in races, 
variety of types, shape of chariots, of weapons, of 
arms, of furniture, of utensils, of food, of plants, still 
clearly visible to-day. A maker of musical instru~ 
ments could certainly make a harp, a lyre, or a sis- 
trum from the pattern of those upon which are playing 
the female musicians at the funeral repast represented 
in one of the tombs of the necropolis of Thebes. 
The model of a dog-cart in a plate of modern car- 
riages is not drawn more accurately than the profile 
of the chariot seen in the funeral procession of the 
ecclesiastical scribe of Amenoph III, a king of the 
eighteenth dynasty. 

The author has not confined himself to these purely 
material details. He has examined the funeral papyri 
which, more or less valuable, are found with each 
mummy ; he has carefully studied the allegorical signs 


which represent the judgment of the soul, the good 


348 


deol de cde a oh chek ch habe ctecbe ocle ah abeabe cde cte cle abe oe 


Ge vse cio we 


AGING Cea LG YoP7 Ts 


and evil deeds of which are weighed before Osiris and 
the forty-twa judges, and thus he has mastered the 
mysterious beliefs of the Egyptians on the question of 
the future life. [The soul, whether it was conducted 
to Amenti or driven into the infernal regions — that 
is, towards the West — by the dog-headed monkeys, 
who appear to have been a sort of daemons charged 
with the carrying out of sentences, —the soul was, 
nevertheless, not freed from all connection with the 
body ; its relative immortality depended in some sort 
upon the integrity of the latter; the alteration, the de- 
privation of one of the limbs was supposed to be felt 
by the soul, the form of whose impalpable spectre 
would have been mutilated and could not have trav- 
ersed, wanting a leg or an arm, the cycle of migra- 
tions or metempsychoses. Hence the religious care 
taken of the human remains, the infallible methods 
and the minute precautions of the embalmers, the 
perfect solidity and the secret location of the tombs, 
of which the priests alone possessed the plan, the 
constant thought of eternity in death which character- 
ised in so striking a manner the ancient Egyptians and 
makes them a nation apart, incomprehensible to modern 


nations, which are generally so eager to give back to 


349 


the earth and to cause to disappear the generations 
which have preceded them. 

During his long and intimate acquaintance with 
Egypt, M. Ernest Feydeau, who is not only an arche- | 
ologist but also a poet, after he had sounded the mys- 
teries of the old kingdom of the Pharaohs, became 
passionately attached to that art which the Greek ideal 
—which nevertheless is indebted to it for more than 
one lesson — has caused us to despise too much. He 
has understood, both as a painter and a sculptor, a 
beauty which is so different from our own standard 
and which is yet so real. 

Hathor, the Egyptian Venus, seems to him as beau- 
tiful as the Venus of Milo. Without entirely sharing 
that feeling, I confess to admiring greatly the clean 
outline, so pure, so slender, and so full of life. In 
spite of the hieratic restrictions which did not allow 
the consecrated attitude to be varied, art shows out in 
more than one direction. ‘There is a beauty of a 
strange and penetrating charm foreign to our own 
habits in the heads with their delicate profiles, their 
great eyes made larger by the use of antimony, the 
somewhat thick lips with their faint, dreamy pout, or 


their vague smile resembling that of the sphinx, in the 


359 


eke ce he fe he ee eee eke eck etek oe de 


CTO WHO Oe ete ete we ure 


rounded cheeks upon which hang broad discs of gold, 
in the brows shaded by lotus flowers, in the temples 
framed in by the narrow tresses of the hair, powdered 
with blue powder, which are shown in funeral proces- 
sions. How youthful, how fresh, how pure are the 
tall, slender bodies, the swelling bosoms, the supple 
waists, the narrow hips of these dancers and musicians 
who beat time with their long, slender fingers and their 
long, narrow feet. The Etruscans themselves have 
never produced anything more light, more graceful, 
and more elegant upon the bodies of their finest vases, 
and in more than one famous Greek bas-relief can be 
recognised attitudes and gestures borrowed from the 
frescoes of the necropolis and the tombs of Egypt. It 
is from Egypt also that Greece took, while diminishing 
their huge size, its Doric and Ionic orders and its 
Corinthian capital, in which the acanthus takes the 


place of the lotus flower. 


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INTRODUCTION . . . 
PSCRANGER 0 Whee 
HonorE DE BALZAC 

Henry Murcer . . 
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE . 


ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE 


ALFRED DE VIGNY . 
CHATTERTON .. . 
PAUL DE Kock 

JULEs DE GONCOURT . 
PUREST TANING 6 ial 4s 
Tony JOHANNOT . . 
Incaes 
PauL DELAROCHE. . 
ARY SCHEFFER. . . 
Horace VERNET . . 
EUGENE DELACROIX . 
HiPpPOLYTE FLANDRIN. 
SRM ARNE fie ws ell 3 
DaviID D’ANGERS . . 


MADEMOISELLE. FANNY ELSSLER 


. 


MADEMOISELLE GEORGES . 


MADEMOISELLE SUZANNE BROHAN 


MADAME DoRVAL . 
MADEMOISELLE RACHEL 


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WG REROTiSsO, the Day 


HE present volume consists of a number of 
articles upon prose writers, poets, painters, 
actresses, and dancers, contributed by 
Gautier to various periodicals, reviews, 

and magazines —J/e Figaro, la Presse, le Moniteur 
universel, le “fournal Officiel, la Gazette de Paris, 
I Artiste — between the years 1837 and 1871. Many 
of them were originally of greater length, but were 
abridged when collected in book form and republished 
in 1874. 

The variety of talents which Gautier criticises in 
these articles has had the advantage of bringing out the 
breadth and generosity of his judgments. Devoted to 
the worship and pursuit of art, he is intensely sympa- 
thetic towards all who cultivate it. No better recom- 
mendation to his favour could be had than love for 


poetry, painting, or sculpture. He can understand that 


3 


keteeebetetttedceteecedcedesd 
PORTRAT&s OF THE 4b 


men should hold views differing widely from his own; 
that they should delight in subjects to which he is 
personally indifferent ; that some should prefer line to 
solour, or colour to line; Greek art to Gothic, the 
East to the West, modern France to ancient Rome. 
He does not wish, he does not expect all to conform 
to his views, to have the same ideal. He has praise 
for Ingres as for Delacroix, for the spiritual-minded 
Lamartine as for the sensual Baudelaire. ‘This, be it 
noted, without yielding up what he believes, what he 
is convinced is the only true mode of comprehending 
art and of reproducing beauty. He is broad-minded, 
kind-hearted, sympathetic ; he is willing, nay, desirous 
to encourage. He seeks for merits rather than defects; 
he is anxious not to allow his prepossessions or his 
prejudices to interfere with his judgment; he is genu- 
inely glad to discover reasons for praising artists whose 
work, on the whole, does not commend itself to him — 
but he will not sacrifice his essential beliefs, and if he 
cannot agree with all that he reads, hears, or sees, he 
will say so plainly. He marks the: limitations of 
painter, poet, or sculptor; he indicates the dangerous 
tendencies, the false notions, the mistaken practice. 


Ingres has his share of demerit, as Delaroche has his 


4 


— —— Sane Cue 
oe ee 


ttbebbbbbtttttt bbb et 
INTRODUCTION 


portion of reproach; and on the other hand Vernet is 
praised and Balzac lauded, even though the former is 
utterly modern and never roams in the fairy realms 
Gautier revels in, and the latter is absolutely unable to 
understand the subtle beauty and the melodious charm 
of verse. 

Of course, Balzac was largely a Romanticist, while 
Gautier tended, not to realism exactly, but to a soberer 
mode of thought and to a firmer, cleaner, more accurate 
form of expression than the school of which’ he had 
been so illustrious a member, and which was being 
dethroned in its turn by the followers of Stendhal, 
Meérimée, and Balzac. Gautier appreciated the admi- 
rable work of the latter at a time when praise was but 
grudgingly conceded to one of the greatest masters of 
French letters. The realism of Balzac did not shock 
him; he saw in the stupendous ‘“ Comédie humaine” 
a form of that art which he himself loved so intensely 
and so faithfully. 

In the same way he could and did appreciate so 
widely different a genius as Lamartine, who appealed 
to him in a very contrary manner, and Alfred de Vigny, 
whose reserve and aristocratic pride could not dampen 


the critic’s enthusiasm for the truly noble works of the 


5 


Séeterebbttbtttttttttttttet 
PORTRAITS VO) DHE eae 


soldier-poet. The labours of Gavarni, of Johannot, 
appeared to him worthy of laudation and notice; he 
conceived, and rightly, that his business as a critic was 
to draw attention to talent in danger of being forgotten, 
and to show what skill, what knowledge, what aptitude 
were needed to produce the bright illustrations which 
day after day gave pleasure to thousands of Frenchmen 
and foreigners. 

In a word, the reading of these papers, on subjects 
so varied, on talents so diverse, has the effect of in- 
creasing admiration for Gautier himself. One learns 
to know better the generous heart that enjoyed be- 
stowing praise, and the upright conscience that refused 
to compromise on questions of principle. And wonder 
grows as Gautier’s own style changes and varies ac- 
cording to the topic ; for it will be noted that the style 
deepens the impression made by the thoughts, and 
renders the work criticised more real, more vivid to the 
reader. 

Finally, the volume in itself recalls a brilliant period 
in the past century. “he names which recur in the 
following pages were household words in very truth; 
and now that the lapse of time has caused some to be 


partly forgotten — others, perhaps, to sink into oblivion 


6 


che che leche oe he ec oh te check cece cde fe beoe so ook 


wre ore 


PNP et CT LON 


— it is pleasant, if a little melancholy, to have those 
figures brought back, those works recalled, those days 
revived, and the dazzling triumphs, the heroic struggles, 
the fierce contests evoked by so magic a pen as 


Théophile Gautier’s. 


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HOUGH he still lived among us and was 
saluted with respectful glance when he 
was met walking, he was no longer a con- 
temporary. In these days of rapid living, 

one does not need to live many years after withdrawing 
from the battle, in order to be able to estimate one’s 
reputation from the point of view of later generations. 
Beranger had the satisfaction of knowing, long before 
going down to the grave, what posterity would think 
of him, and of passing away sure of his immortality, 
if indeed such an ambition had arisen within his heart. 
The men born at the beginning of the century, or 
somewhat earlier, formed the immediate public of 
Beranger. Those who belong to the younger genera- 
tion know him better through having heard his songs 
sung by their fathers than from singing them them- 
selves; they admire him somewhat on trust, and 
because of vague remembrances of their childhood. 


This circumstance is favourable to the poet’s reputa- 


9 


ah ce bso be abe ahaa oe be cece cde abe be ole eee eb abe ole 


OTe BVO CTS CTS STS aie wi) ee 


PORTRAITS OF DRE 


tion; his claim is admitted, it is no longer discussed, 
and the general meaning of his work stands out 
more clearly. 

Béranger consoled France in her humiliation; he 
preserved and revived noble remembrances, and in 
this respect he truly deserves to be called a national 
poet; his refrains few on sonorous wings from lip to 
lip, and many know them who never read his work. 
No man was more popular, and in this he obtained 
what was refused to greater men of higher position 
than his own. 

His talent consisted in enclosing within a narrow 
framework a clear, thoroughly defined, easily under- 
stood thought, and in expressing it in a simple form. 
He bore in mind the mass of the uneducated, whom 
French poets are too apt to forget, and who are 
punished for their disdain by a limited reputation. 
The uneducated, women, the common people rarely 
open a volume of verse; they fail to understand lyrical 
descriptions, complicated rhythms, and learned expres- 
sions. What they need especially is a legend, a short 
drama, an action, a feeling, something human which 
they are capable of grasping. Béranger knew how to 


compose. Even his poorest songs are planned, con- 


10 


nected ; they have a definite aim; they begin, continue, 
and end logically ; in a word, they have a framework 
like a vaudeville, a novel, a drama. They are not mere 
effusions, poetic caprices, or unconscious harmonies. 
Having settled on his outline and strengthened it, 
as do certain painters, Béranger filled it in and coloured 
it, sometimes laboriously, with a firm, clean, accurate 
touch, without any great warmth of tone, and in that 
gray tint which is, as it were, the palette of French 
genius, inimical, in all the arts, to excess, violence, and 
boldness. Although he voluntarily restricted himself, 
and often with difficulty, to a genre which he raised to 
a higher level, and which, up to his time, was con- 
sidered inferior, he ever cared, like a true artist, for 
rhythm and rime, without, however, making them dom- 
inant, as is the case with certain other poets. The 
rime sound in his work is always full and round, and 
almost always has its supporting letter. He has even 
often hit upon rare and happy rimes in this way which 
contain surprises and satisfy the ear. His verse, occa- 
sionally somewhat clumsily constructed, and, as it were, 
ill at ease through lack of space, — for the chanson 
does not admit of much more than six or eight coup- 


lets, the lines of which must not have more than ten 


Il 


abe of abs ols ole oly obs ce alle ole abe cbr abs obs ob abe ofn obs or ole obe obs ob 


PORTRAUIMS OF ShH E apa 
syllables, forming a verse in itself too long and incon- 
veniently divided for singing, is generally flowing 
and well constructed, with the czsura well placed, 
and infinitely superior to contemporary verse until 
came the young Romanticist school which elaborated 
such marvellous rhythms. But although he was lov- 
ingly patient and careful in execution, polishing and 
repolishing in order to efface all traces of joints, he 
never looked upon that part of the work as anything 
but secondary. He subordinated everything to his 
original intention, to the end he aimed at and the 
effect he sought to produce. Like the dramatic author, 
who cares less for style than the writer properly so- 
called, he had, as may be guessed, to cut out many 
charming things which would have distracted the at- 
tention and proved tedious. Few poets have so much 
courage or common-sense. 

Born one of the people, Beéranger had all their 
instincts ; he naturally understood and felt their joys, 
their griefs, their regrets, their hopes, and thus he was 
thoroughly modern. He did not look for his subjects 
to antiquity, which he was unacquainted with at first, 
and which he afterwards affected to ignore. Never 


having learned Latin, he ingeniously turned this pre- 


eee) 


che ahah oho ay abs abe chs che ch abode bebe cde ede cbocto oe oe fo 
BERANGER 


text to account in order not to write a patchwork of 
Horace and Virgil. At atime when imitation was all 
the vogue, he thought for himself, if he did write more 
like other men, and as criticism did not then attach 
much importance to songs, he did not suffer from 
those violent attacks which other budding geniuses 
had to contend with. 

France, as the Revolution of 1830 fully proved, 
always laid the blame for the disasters of 1815 at the 
door of the Restoration. The success of Béranger’s 
political songs was therefore immense. He expressed 
with rare skill the general feeling, and sang aloud 
what every one whispered low; he spoke of the Man 
of Fate, of the tricolour, of the Old Sergeant, and be- 
sides, enabled the French to make fun of their con_ 
querors, — a service which that brave, proud, and witty 
people never forgets; for it will put up with anything 
if it can turn its enemy into ridicule. 

In one respect Béranger resembles Charlet, heli in 
his line of art also wrought out the familiar epic of the 
Grand Army, and represented Napoleon such as the 
people had seen him, with his small hat and his gray 
riding-coat. The poet and the painter accomplished 


something which it is very dificult to manage ina 


it 


decked clock ch deck ob ob deb dechcb check checbeche oh cheek 


Che we ore ne Whe ame Of he One Fe Wve ufo 

PORT RAQWS vOR) Tithe 
highly civilised country; they discovered legend in 
history, and they drew with numberless ineffaceable 
touches a silhouette which was at once recognisable. 

These are doubtless the chief reasons of the great 
popularity which forever attached itself to Béranger’s 
name; but they are not the only ones. His wit is 
really French, even Gallic, without any foreign mix- 
ture; that is to say, a tempered, playful, humourous 
wit, of easy morality, of Socratic good-fellowship, 
something between that of Montaigne and Rabelais, 
the latter of whom laughs more willingly than he 
weeps, and yet knows when to temper a smile with 
a tear. It is not exactly the poetic spirit, such as 
Goethe, Schiller, Byron, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, and 
Alfred de Musset have revealed it to us; but lyricism 
is not part of the genius of our nation. Beranger 
pleases the greater number, outside of his political 
opinions, by his ingenious clearness, his somewhat bare 
sobriety, and his proverbial common-sense, which, so 
far as I am concerned, come too close to prose. I am 
willing that the Muse should walk, especially when she 
wears her pretty cothurns, but I prefer that she should 
fly away, even at the cost of disappearing in the 


clouds. 


14 


LKEAEPHE AAS AHS tttttetes 


There is in Béranger’s work a large number of 
types which he sketched in a few couplets, and which 
live forever with that vigorous life of art which is 
much more lasting than real life: the King of Yvetot, 
Roger Bontemps, the Marquis of Carabas, the Mar- 
chioness de Pretintaille, Mistress Grégoire, Frétillon, 
Lisette, —sparkling etchings, light sketches, pastels 
done with the tip of the finger, which are worth as | 
much as the most finished painting. You feel that 
you have met these people as living beings, that you 


have spoken to them and that they have replied. 


15 


Born IN 1799 — DIED IN 1850 


I 


BOUT the year 1835 I was living in two 
eX small rooms in the blind lane of the Doy- 
enné, nearly on the spot where rises to-day | 

the Pavilion Mollien. Although situated in the centre 
of Paris opposite the Tuileries, within a couple of steps 
of the Louvre, the place was wild and deserted, and it 
certainly took persistence to discover me there. Yet 
one morning I saw a young gentleman with high-bred 
manners, with a cordial, clever look, cross my thresh- 
old, and apologise for introducing himself. It was 
Jules Sandeau. He had come from Balzac to secure 
my services for the Chronique de Paris, a weekly news- 
paper, which some of my readers may remember, but 
which was not financially successful, as it deserved to 
be. Balzac, Sandeau told me, had read ** Mademoi- 
selle de Maupin,” then recently published, and he had 
greatly admired the author’s style. He therefore 


16 


it 
ie 
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og 
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ie 
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i 
it 
ih 
i 
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if 
Boe 
i 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


much desired to secure my collaboration for the 
newspaper which he backed and managed. An ap- 
pointment was made, and from that day began be- 
tween us a friendship which death alone interrupted. 

I mention this, not because it is flattering to me, but 
because it does honour to Balzac, who, famous already, 
sent for an obscure young writer who had just entered 
the literary field, and associated him in his work on a 
footing of perfect comradeship and equality. At this 
time, it is true, Balzac was not the author of the 
“ Comédie humaine,” but he had written, besides sev- 
eral tales, the ‘“‘ Physiologie du Mariage,” the “ Peau de 
Chagrin,” ‘“ Louis Lambert,” ‘ Séraphita,”’ “ Eugénie 
Grandet,” the “ Histoire des Treize,”’ the “ Médecin 
de Campagne,” and “Le Pére Goriot,’’ —that is to 
say, under ordinary circumstances, enough to make 
five or six men famous. His rising glory, increasing 
from month to month, already shone with all the 
splendour of the dawn; and certainly it needed great 
brilliancy to shine in a heaven where showed at once 
Lamartine, Victor Hugo, de Vigny, de Musset, Sainte- 
Beuve, Alexandre Dumas, Meérimée, George Sand, and 
so many others. But Balzac at no time of his life 


posed as a literary Grand Lama, and he was always a 


-. regs 


eobebe cock ch dak db bebe bah oh che 
POR TRAIL S(O EF? aE Gai 


kindly companion. He was proud, but was absolutely 
devoid of conceit. 

At that time he lived at the other end of the 
Luxembourg, near the Observatory, in an unfrequented 
street called Cassini. On the garden wall which ran 
almost all the way down the side on which stood the 
house inhabited by Balzac, were to be read the words, 
“Absolute, Dealer in Bricks.” ‘This curious sign, 
which still exists, unless | am mistaken, struck him 
very greatly. It is possible that ‘* La Recherche de 
PAbsolu,” sprang from this. ‘This fateful name prob- 
ably suggested to the author Balthaser Claés in 
pursuit of his impossible dream. 

When I saw him for the first time, Balzac, who 
was just one year older than the century, was about 
thirty-six, and his face was one of those that 
are never forgotten. In his presence one recalled 
Shakespeare’s words about Czsar, — 

‘* Nature might stand up 
And say to all the world, ‘ This was a man !””” 

My heart beat high, for I had never approached 
without trembling a master of thought, and all the 
speeches which | had prepared on the way remained 


unspoken, my only utterance being a stupid phrase, 


18 


ere oe ofe ere 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


something like “It is very pleasant to-day.” Balzac 
noted my embarrassment, soon put me at my ease, 
and during breakfast I regained my coolness enough 
to examine him carefully. 

He wore even then by way of a dressing-gown 
the cashmere or white-flannel gown belted in by a 
cord, in which he was painted somewhat later by 
Louis Boulanger. I do not know what fancy had led 
him to choose this costume, which he never gave up; 
perhaps in his eyes it was symbolical of the cloistered 
life to which his work condemned him, and like a true 
Benedictine novelist, he had taken the costume of the 
order. Whatever the reason may have been, the fact 
remains that the white gown became him uncommonly 
well. He boasted, as he showed me his clean sleeves, 
that he had never soiled their purity with the least 
drop of ink, “for,” said he, “the true writer must be 
clean while at work.” The collar of the gown, 
thrown back, showed his strong bull-neck, as round 
as a pillar, without apparent muscles, and of a satin- 
like whiteness which contrasted with the richer com- 
plexion of the face. At this time, Balzac, in the 
prime of his age, exhibited all the signs of robust 


health, which were not at all in accord with the 


oo 


che choo oe oka ke he ce che abe ch cece cdot bear deco ohooh 
PORTRATDOS( OF TWh ir y 


fashionable Romanticist pallor and greenness ; his thor- 
ough-bred Touraine blood flushed his cheeks with a 
bright purple and gave a warm colour to his kindly, 
thick, sinuous lips, which smiled readily. A small 
moustache and a tuft accented the contours without 
concealing them. ‘The nose, ending squarely, divided 
into two lobes, cut with well opened nostrils, had a 
strikingly original and peculiar appearance: so Balzac, 
when he was posing for his bust, recommended David 
d’Angers to take care of the nose,‘ Take care of 
my nose; my nose is a whole world.’ His brow was 
beautiful, broad, noble, decidedly whiter than the rest 
of the face, with no other mark than a furrow per- 
pendicular to the root of the nose. The bumps of 
locality stood out markedly above the brows. His 
abundant, long, black hair was brushed back like a 
lion’s mane. As for his eyes, there never were any 
like them; they were filled with intense vitality, light, 
and magnetism. In spite of his nightly watches, the 
eyeballs were as pure, limpid, and bluish as those of 
a child or a maiden, and in them were set two black 
diamonds lighted at times with rich golden flashes. 
They were eyes fit to make eagles lower theirs, fit to 


read through walls and breasts, to still the maddened 


20 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


—e 


wild beast, —the eyes of a king, of a seer, of a 
tamer. 

Madame Emile de Girardin, in her novel entitled 
“Ta Canne de M. de Balzac,” speaks of those brilliant 
eyes: “ Tancred then perceived that the top of that 
club was studded with turquoises, set in a marvellously 
chased gold setting, and behind it he saw two great 
black eyes more brilliant than the gems themselves.” 

As soon as one met the glance of these extraor- 
dinary eyes, it became impossible to notice any triv- 
iality or irregularity in the other features. 

The usual expression of his face was a sort of 
powerful hilarity, of Rabelaisian and monkish joy, and 
no doubt the gown helped to suggest the thought of 
Brother Jean des Entommeures, but broadened and 
elevated by a mind of the first order. 

According to his habit, Balzac had risen at midnight 
and had worked up to the time of my arrival. His 
face nevertheless showed no fatigue, save a darker line 
under the eyes, and during the whole breakfast he was 
madly gay. Little by little the conversation turned to 
literature ; he complained of the frightful difficulty of 
the French Janguage. Style preoccupied him greatly, 


and he sincerely believed he did not possess the secret 


Pa | 


Lb kb heb eetbeebbabbd bbs 
PORTRABIS OF TJHEW@DAY 


of it. It is true that at that time he was generally 
charged with lacking style. “The school of Hugo, in 
love with the sixteenth century and the Middle Ages, 
learned in czsuras, rhythms, structures, periods, rich 
in words and trained to write good prose by a course 
in the gymnastics of verse, working besides in imitation 
of a master whose methods were assured, cared only 
for what was well written, that is, wrought out and 
coloured to excess, and, besides, considered the depict- 
ing of modern manners useless, low, and unlyrical. So 
Balzac, in spite of the reputation which he began to 
enjoy with the public, was not admitted among the 
gods of Romanticism, and he knew it. While his 
books were read eagerly, their readers did not consider 
their serious aspect, and even to his admirers he long 
remained “the most fertile of our romancers”’ and 
nothing else. “That may surprise modern readers, but I 
can answer for the accuracy of my statement. Balzac 
therefore took infinite pains to acquire style, and in his 
anxiety to be correct, he consulted people who were 
immeasurably inferior to him. He had, he said, before 
signing any of his works, written about a hundred vol- 
umes under different pseudonyms, — Horace de Saint- 


Aubin, L. de Villerglé, etc.,— in order to get his 


22 


gtebbbb bt tbbbbbbbadch habrch cb hot 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


hand in; and yet he did possess his own form, 
although he was not aware of it. 

But let us return to the breakfast. While talking, 
Balzac played with his knife, and I noticed his hands, 
which were of exquisite beauty, — white, with well- 
shaped, plump fingers, and rosy, shining nails. He 
was rather proud of them, and smiled with pleasure 
when they were looked at; they gave him a feeling of 
high birth and aristocracy. Byron says in a note, with 
evident satisfaction, that Ali Pacha complimented him 
upon his small ears, and inferred therefrom that he was 
aman of birth. A similar remark about his hands 
would have flattered Balzac as much, and even more 
than praise of one of his books. He went so far as to 
feel a sort of prejudice against those whose hands 
were not shapely. 

The meal was rather choice. A paté de foie gras 
formed part of it, but this was a breach of his usual 
frugality, as he observed laughingly ; and for this sol- 
emn occasion he had borrowed silverware from his 
publisher. 

I withdrew, after having promised to write for the 
Chronique de Paris, in which appeared the ‘Tour 


en Belgique,” ‘‘La Morte amoureuse,” ‘ La Chaine 


43 


deste decks de oe oe ob cece oecdece oe cbelo dees oe lec 

PORTRAITS © BY THE DAY 
d’Or,” and other literary productions. Charles de 
Bernard, also invited by Balzac, published in it ‘ La 
Femme de quarante ans,’ “ La Rose jaune,” and a 
few tales which have appeared since then in book 
form. Balzac, as is well known, had invented Woman 
at Thirty; his imitator had added ten years to that 
already venerable age, and his heroine was none the 
less successful. 

Before we proceed farther, let me stop and give a . 
few details of Balzac’s life before I became acquainted 
with him. My authorities are his sister, Madame de 
Surville, and himself. 

Balzac. was born in Tours on May 16, 1799, on 
Saint Honoré’s day; hence his name, which sounded 
well and seemed of good omen. Little Honoré was 
not a wonderful child; he did not prematurely foretell 
that he would write the **Comédie humaine.”’ He 
was a healthy, blooming boy, fond of play, with bright, 
gentle eyes, but in no wise different from others save 
when looked at attentively. At seven years of age, on 
leaving the day school in Tours, he was sent to the 
Collége de Vendéme which was under the management 
of the Oratorians, and where he was considered a very 


mediocre pupil. 


24 


ee ae ye vTe wre ure 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


cece feo be che eke hohe dc dodo aleabe oh cheek 


- The first part of “ Louis Lambert ” contains interest- 

ing information concerning this portion of Balzac’s life. 
Dividing his own individuality, he has represented 
himself as a former schoolmate of Louis Lambert, 
speaking sometimes in his own name and sometimes 
lending his own sentiments to that imaginary yet very 
real personage, which is a sort of objective represen- 
tation of his own soul : — 


<< Situated in the centre of the town, on the small river 
Loir which flows at the foot of the buildings, the college forms 
a broad enclosure in which are contained the usual buildings 
of an establishment of this sort: a chapel, a theatre, a hospi- 
tal, a bakery. ‘This college, the most celebrated seat of learn- 
ing in the central provinces, draws its students from them and 
the colonies. On account of the distance parents do not come 
very often to visit their children. Besides, the regulations for- 
bid holidays out of school. Once they have entered, the 
students remain within the buildings until the end of their 
studies. With the sole exception of the walks taken outside 
of the walls under the charge of the Fathers, everything had 
been arranged to give to this establishment the advantages of 
conyentual discipline. In my day the corrector was still a liv- 
ing remembrance, and the leathern ferule performed its dread 


work most creditably.”’ 


Thus does Balzac represent that formidable school, 


which left lasting remembrances in his memory. It 


cb boob ake ae ob oho abe abe abe cde cde oak abe ooo abe bea be ob 
PORT RABEL S*'O THE pea 


would be interesting to compare the tale called 
‘William Wilson,’ in which Edgar Poe describes, 
with the mysterious enlargement of childhood, the old 
Elizabethan building in which his hero was brought up 
with a companion no less strange than Louis Lambert ; 
but this is not the place to draw the parallel; I am 
satisfied with suggesting it. 

Balzac suffered terribly in that college, where his 
dreamy nature was oppressed constantly by inflexible 
rules. He neglected to fulfil his duties, but, favoured 
by the tacit complicity of a tutor in mathematics, who 
was librarian and engaged on some transcendental 
work, he did not take his lesson, and carried off such 
books as he pleased. His whole time was spent in 
reading in secret. Before long, therefore, he was the 
best-punished pupil in the class. Impositions and 
keeping in soon took up his recreation hours. Punish- 
ment inspires in certain boys a sort of stoical feeling 
of revolt, and they exhibit towards their exasperated 
teachers the same disdainful impassibility as the captive 
savage warrior towards the enemies who torture him; 
neither imprisonment, deprivation of food, nor beatings 


can draw the least plaint from them. ‘Then occur 


between the master and the pupil horrible contentions 


26 


decked abe ch decks be obec obecbeche decd decdeabe abe choke 


OFS Fe Cfo ete eFe ofe ore efe we oTe 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


unknown to the parents, in which the constancy of the 
martyr equals the skill of the torturer. Some nervous 
teachers cannot bear the look, full of hatred, contempt, 
and threat, with which a boy of eight or ten will dare 
them. 

Let me bring together here a few characteristic de- 
tails which, though related of Louis Lambert, really 


apply to Balzac: — 


‘*« Accustomed to the open air and the freedom of an educa- 
tion left to chance, caressed by the tender care of an old man 
who cherished him, accustomed to think in bright sunshine, it 
was very difhcult for him to bow to the college regulations, to 
walk in file, to live between the four walls of a room in which 
eighty silent lads were seated on wooden benches, each before 
his own desk. His acuteness of feeling was exquisitely deli- 
cate, and he suffered in every part of his being from this life 
in common. ‘The odours which fouled the air, mingling with 
the smell of a class-room always dirty and filled with the 
remains of our breakfasts and lunches, told upon his sense of 
smell, —that sense which, being more directly related than the 
others to the nervous system and the brain, is bound to cause 
by its impairment invisible harm to the organs of thought. 
Besides these causes of atmospheric corruption, there were in 
the study-rooms lockers in which each boy put his spoil : 
pigeons killed for feast-days, or food surreptitiously brought 
from the refectory. Finally, there was in each of the study- 


oll 


choke alec de ch decks dee cbectecbe cece cbr cece cle che ah 
PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


rooms a huge stone on which reposed at all times two buckets 


full of water, in which we went every morning in turns to wash 
our faces and hands in the presence of a master. Cleansed 
once a day only, before we were awake, the rooms were 
always filthy. ‘Then, in spite of the number of windows and 
the door, the air was constantly vitiated by the emanations 
from the sink, from the lockers, by the numerous industries of 
each pupil, to say nothing of our eighty bodies crowded 
together. ‘This sort of Aumus mingling constantly with 
the mud which we brought in from the courtyards, formed 
a filth of unbearable odour. ‘The privation of the pure and 
perfumed air of the country, in which he had lived until 
then, the change in his habits, the discipline, — every- 
thing saddened Lambert. With his head always resting 
upon his left hand and his arm leaning upon the desk, he 
passed the study-hours in looking at the foliage of the trees 
in the court or at the clouds in the sky. He seemed to be 
studying his lessons, but, noting his pen at rest or his page 
untouched, the teacher would cry to him, ¢ You are not work- 


Dae Wed 


ing, Lambert. 


To this vivid, accurate painting of the sufferings. 
entailed by school life, let me add that other passage in 
which Balzac, speaking of his dual self under the 
double name of Pythagoras and the Poet,—the one 
borne by that half of himself which he has personified, 
in Louis Lambert, the other by his confessed self, — 


28 


ae he abe oh che he abe he che che ah heeds che cb abs ols alls ols cll cbs alle chooks 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


admirably explains why he passed for a dullard in the 
eyes of his teachers : — 


«« Our independence, our illicit occupations, our apparent 
idleness, the state of numbness in which we remained, our 
constant punishments, our dislike of tasks and impositions, 
gained for us the reputation of being cowardly and incorrigible 
children. Our masters despised us, and we suffered from very 
dreadful discredit among our comrades, from whom we con- 
cealed our forbidden studies through fear of their ridicule. 
This double contempt, which was unjust as far as the Fathers 
were concerned, was natural enough in our comrades. We 
could neither play ball, run, nor walk on stilts in times of 
amnesty, when by chance we obtained a moment’s freedom ; 
we shared none of the pleasures in vogue in the school; we 
were strangers to the enjoyments of our comrades, We re- 
mained alone, sadly seated under a tree in the yard. So the 
Poet and Pythagoras formed an exception, a life outside the 
ordinary life. The penetrating instinct, the delicate self-love 
of schoolboys, made them feel that these were loftier or lower 
minds than theirs; hence arose in some a hatred of our mute 
aristocracy, in others contempt for our uselessness. We were 
not conscious of this state of feelings, and it may be that I have 
only made it out now. So we lived exactly like two rats, in 
the corner of the room where were our desks, and where we 


had to stay both during hours of study and of play.” 
The result of the secret work, of the meditations 


which took up the time for study, was that famous 


mes 


de ce oe cle oe ke ode oe oh oe ecdecdecdecdecde ebook che eck 


ere eye eye 


PORTRAITS! (O:F: Ti Rea pear 


“< Treatise on the Will’ which is mentioned several 
times in the ‘“*Comédie humaine.” Balzac always 
regretted the loss of that first work, which he has 
briefly summarised in “ Louis Lambert.” And he 
relates, with an emotion which time has not lessened, 
the confiscation of the box in which the precious 
manuscript was enclosed. Jealous comrades endeav- 
oured to snatch the box from the two friends, who 


were defending it ardently. 


«¢ Suddenly attracted by the noise of the fight, Father Hau- 
goult intervened abruptly and asked what the dispute was 
about. The terrible Haugoult ordered us to give him the box. 
Lambert handed him the key; he took out the papers, glanced 
at them, and then said as he confiscated them, «So that is the 
nonsense for which you neglect your duty!’ Great tears fell 
from Lambert’s eyes, drawn from him as much by the con- 
sciousness of his wounded moral superiority as by the gratui- 
tous insult and the treachery which had befallen us. Father 
Haugoult probably sold to a grocer of Vendéme the * Treatise 
on the Will,’ without knowing the importance of the scientific 
treasures, the still-born germs of which were lost in ignorant 


hands.”’ 
After this narration, he adds, — 


‘* It was in memory of the catastrophe which happened to 
Louis’ book that, in the work with which these studies begin, 


30 


che che abs abs ole obs als be che abs br cbc be obs ob cl abe enol abl ols ob ofl 


wre ore re ore wee PTO CFE CFO CFO UTS CTO CFO CTS OHO 
a 


FL OONI@ Ror AD ES BA TZ iaec 


I have used for a fictitious work the title really invented by 
Louis Lambert, and that I have given the name, Pauline, of a 


woman whom he loved to a young girl full of devotion.”’ 


And, indeed, on opening the “ Peau de Chagrin,” 
there is found in Raphael’s confession the following 


sentences : — 


«¢ You alone admired my ‘ Theory of the Will,’ that long 
work in preparation for which I had studied Oriental lan- 
guages, anatomy, and physiology; to which I devoted the 
greater part of my time; the work which, unless I am mis- 
taken, will complete the labours of Mesmer, Lavater, Gall, and 
Bichat, and open a new road to human science. With it stops 
my beautiful life and that daily sacrifice, that continuous labour 
unknown to the world, the sole recompense of which lies per- 
haps in the work itself. Since I came to years of discretion 
until the day when I finished my ‘Theory,’ I observed, 
learned, wrote, read unceasingly, and my life was, as it were, 
one long imposition. An effeminate lover of Oriental idleness, 
attached to my dreams, sensually inclined, I have worked un- 
ceasingly, denying myself the enjoyments of Parisian life; a 
gourmand, I have been sober ; although I love walking, and 
travelling by sea, although I longed to visit foreign countries, 
although I delight even now in making ducks and drakes like a 
child, I have remained constantly at my desk, pen in hand ; 
fond of conversation, J have gone to listen silently to the pro- 


fessors in the public courses at the Library and the Museum ; 


31 


dhol oof ok oh oe de deca abe cbecke dee cbeche doco oh chet 


ore ee We wre ore 


PORATSRIAME SiO Ft ACR 


I have slept on my solitary couch like a Benedictine monk, 
and yet woman was my only chimera, ——a chimera which I 


caressed and which ever fled from me.’’ 


If Balzac regretted the “ Treatise on the Will,” he 
must have felt a good deal less the loss of his epic 


poem on the Incas, which began thus : 
‘¢ O Inca, O unfortunate, unhappy king,”’ 


an ill-timed inspiration which gained for him, as long 
as he remained at school, the nickname of poet. Bal- 
zac, it must be owned, never had the gift of poetry, or 
at least, of versification. His very complex thought 
was always rebellious to rhythm. 

The result of this intense meditation, of these men- 
tal efforts, truly prodigious in a child of twelve or four- 
teen, was a strange illness, a nervous fever, a sort of 
state of coma, utterly unintelligible to the teachers, 
who were not aware of the secret reading and work of 
the young Honoré, apparently idle and stupid. No 
one in the school suspected his precocious excess of 
intelligence, or knew that in the school prison, to 
which he had himself condemned daily in order to be 
free, the supposedly idle scholar had absorbed a whole 


library of serious books far above his powers at that 


32 


cee che soe oe feof oe abe elect cece cb abe obese beck 


ore oF ome wpe wre wa 


HOND® REED EF IBA D7 SG 


age. Let me here introduce a few interesting passages 
about the power of reading attributed to Louis Lam- 


bert, that is, of course, Balzac : — 


‘<In three years’ time Louis Lambert had assimilated the 
substance of the books in his uncle’s library which were worth 
reading. The absorption of ideas through reading had become 
in him a curious phenomenon. His eye took in seven or eight 
lines at a glance, and his mind caught the sense with a speed 
comparable to that of his glance. Often even a single word 
sufficed to enable him to draw out the meaning of a whole sen- 
tence. His memory was prodigious. He remembered with 
equal accuracy thoughts acquired by reading and thoughts sug- 
gested to him by reflection or conversation. He possessed 
every form of memory, — for places, names, words, things, 
faces. Not only could he recall objects at will, but he saw 
them in his mind lighted up and coloured as they were at the 
moment when he had perceived them. ‘That power applied 
equally to the most elusive acts of the understanding. He 
remembered, to use his own expression, not only where lay 
thoughts in the book from which he had taken them, but also 


the state of his soul at distant times.” 

Balzac preserved that marvellous gift of his youth 
throughout his life, and increased it. It explains the 
extent of his work, which is as great as the labours of 


Hercules. 


The frightened teachers wrote to Balzac’s parents to 


3 33 


she obo a boob abe abe ob abe abe eo abecke cde o le obec ooo abe eee 


PORT RAD SOF) THE ii 
come and fetch him with all speed. His mother 
hastened to him and took him home to Tours. Great 
was the astonishment of the family when they beheld 
the thin, wretched child which the school sent back, 
instead of the cherub which it had received, and 
Honoré’s grandmother noticed it with pain. Not only 
had he lost his fine complexion and his plumpness;_ he 
seemed, owing to a congestion of ideas, to have become 
imbecile. His attitude was that of an ecstatic or of a 
somnambulist asleep with his eyes wide-open, lost in 
deep reverie; he did not hear what was said to him, or 
his thoughts, having wandered away, returned too late 
for him to reply. But open air, rest, the affectionate 
environment of the family, the distractions which he 
was forced to indulge in, and the energetic vigour of 
youth soon triumphed over this sickly state. The 
tumultuous buzz of ideas in his brain gradually died 
down; his miscellaneous reading gradually became 
classified ; real images, observations made silently upon 
actuality, mingled with his abstractions. While walk- 
ing or playing, he studied the fair landscape of the 
Loire, the provincial types, the cathedral of Saint- 
Gatien, and the characteristic faces of priests and 


canons. Several sketches which were turned to ac- 


34 


TO. STO. OTS Te UTE CO CTS BIO OTS OTS UFO 


abe obs obs abe obs obs ole ols be ofbe obs choos obs oll obs obs ole abe obs obs ole oe obe 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


count later in the great fresco of the “ Comédie ” were 
certainly drawn during this period of fruitful inaction. 
Nevertheless, the family, no more than the school, 
divined or understood Balzac’s intelligence. Indeed, 
if anything ingenious escaped him, his mother, who 
nevertheless was a superior woman, would say to him, 
“¢T fancy, Honoré, you do not understand what you 
are saying.” And Balzac would laugh, without ex- 
plaining himself. His father, who had something of 
Montaigne, of Rabelais, and of Uncle Toby in his ~ 
philosophy, his eccentricity, and his kindness (it is 
Mme. de Surville who speaks), had a rather better 
opinion of his son, on account of certain genetic 
systems which he had invented and which led him to 
the conclusion that a child of his could not possibly be 
a fool. He did not, however, in the smallest degree, 
suspect that the boy would in the future be a great 
man. 

Balzac’s family having returned to Paris, he was 
sent to the boarding-school of M. Lepitre in the rue 
Saint-Louis, and then to that of Messieurs Scanzer and 
Beuzelin, in the rue Thorigny at the Marais. ‘There, 
as at the Vendome school, his genius did not manifest 


itself, and he remained confounded amid the herd of 


35 


fs 


tlt — peli Sit eink — 4 


me wre 


el. 
P OR TiRAMWET Si (O.R AEE 


ordinary pupils. No enthusiastic usher said to him, 


chee ce be oe abe che be oh abe ebecbncde oe ceo bao bre ce ob 


Tu Marcellus eris, or Sic itur ad astra, 

Having finished his school education, Balzac gave 
himself that second education which is the true one. 
He studied, perfected himself, attended the courses at 
the Sorbonne, and studied law while working in the 
office of a solicitor and notary. Although this was 
apparently a waste of time, since Balzac did not be- 
come a solicitor, a notary, or a judge, it was neverthe- 
less of value to him, for it made him acquainted with 
legal people, and enabled him to write later, in a way to 
amaze professional men, what may be called the legal 
side of the “* Comédie humaine.” 

Having passed his examinations, the great question 
of the career to be followed presented itself. His 
people wanted Balzac to become a notary, but the 
future great writer, who was conscious of his genius, 
though no one believed in it, refused most respectfully, 
although he had the opportunity to enter an office on 
most favourable conditions. His father gave him a 
couple of years to show what he could do, and as the 
family was returning to the provinces, Mme. Balzac 
installed Honoré in a garret, giving him an allow- 


ance scarcely sufficient for the barest needs, and 


36 


ah ee che oe abe oho he oh abe oboe abe la ce obec ae ee 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


hoping that a taste of privations would make him 
wiser. 

That attic was in the rue de Lesdiguiéres, near the 
Arsenal, the library of which offered its resources to 
the young student. No doubt, to pass from a home in 
which he enjoyed abundance and luxury to a wretched 
garret would be hard at any other time of life than 
twenty-one, which was Balzac’s age; but if the dream 
of every child is to wear boots, that of every young 
man is to have a room, a room of his own, of which he 
has the key in his pocket, even if the room be only 
large enough for him to stand upright in the middle. 
A room is the virile toga, is independence, individuality, 
and love. 

So here is Master Honoré, perched aloft, seated 
before his table, starting to write the masterpiece which 
was to justify his father’s indulgence and to give the 
lie to the unfavourable predictions of his friends. It is 
a singular thing that Balzac began with a tragedy, with 
Cromwell for its subject. Just about that time Victor 
Hugo was completing his ‘¢ Cromwell,” the preface of 
which became the manifesto of the young dramatic 


school. 


pm eee 


ee 


jfe Ve eve efe eye eye we on O10 We UO OTe CTE CVE aie Ve wie 
PORT: RiAI@ S$; OF) TR 


II 


For any one who knew Balzac intimately and who 


99 


reads attentively the “ Comédie humaine,” it contains, 
especially in his earlier works, many interesting details 
of his character and of his life, when he had not quite 
yet got rid of his own individuality, and for want of 
subjects observed and dissected himself. I have said 
that he began the hard novitiate of the literary life in a 
garret of the rue de Lesdiguiéres, near the Arsenal. 
The tale ‘“ Facino Cane,’ dated Paris, March, 1836, 
and dedicated to Louise, contains some valuable infor- 
mation of the life which the young aspirant to glory 


led in his aerial nest : — 


«©] was then living in a street which you probably do 
not know, the rue de Lesdiguiéres. It begins at the rue 
Saint-Antoine, opposite a fountain, near the Place de la 
Bastille, and ends in the rue de la Cerisaie. The love of 
learning had cast me into a garret, where I worked during the 
night, while I spent the day in a neighbouring library, — that 
of Monsieur (the King’s brother). I lived frugally ; I con- 
formed to the conditions of that monastic life which is so 
necessary to the worker. When the weather was fine, I 
occasionally took a walk on the Boulevard Bourdon, A single 


passion could draw me from my studious habits, but was not 


38 


she cbe abe obs a abe che che oe a eaecde ence obec rab oe es 
HON OR ba® EB) BiATs7arces v 


that passion also a study? I would go to observe the manners 
of the Faubourg, its inhabitants and their characters. As 
badly dressed as the workmen, indifferent to decorum, they 
did not mistrust me; I could mingle with their groups, I 
could go and watch them bargaining and disputing at the time 
when they left off work. Observation had already become 
intuitive with me; it penetrated the soul without neglecting 
the body, — or rather, it grasped external details so thoroughly 
that at once it went beyond them. It gave me the power to 
live the life of the individual upon which I practised it, by 
enabling me to take his place, as the Dervish in the ¢ Thou- 
sand and One Nights’ took the body and soul of people over 
whom he uttered certain words. When between eleven and 
midnight I met a workman and his wife returning together 
from the Ambigu-Comique Theatre, I would amuse myself 
following them from the Boulevard du Pont-aux-Choux to the 
Boulevard Beaumarchais. ‘These good people talked first of 
the play which they had seen; then from one thing to 
another, they got to their business. The mother pulled the 
child by the hand without listening to its plaints or its requests. 
The pair reckoned up the money which would be paid them 
the next day; they spent it in twenty different ways; then 
would come household details, grumblings at the excessive 
price of potatoes, or at the length of the winter and the in- 
creasing cost of living, energetic remonstrances about what 
was due the baker, and finally discussions which grew bitter 


and in which each exhibited his or her character in picturesque 


ao 


chcbecbecdeds che deck ob obra ctech che cecbe ache ce ooh 


POR-TRATYS® OF > HE Vpaies 


expression. As I listened to these people, I could adopt their 
life, I felt their clothes on my back, I walked in their shoes 
full of holes. ‘Their desires, their needs, everything, passed 
into my soul, and my soul passed into theirs ; it was the 
dream of a man wide-awake. I got hot with them against the 
foreman who tyrannised over them, or against the bad-paying 
client who made them return several days without settling up. 
To abandon my own habits, to become another self by the 
intoxication of moral faculties, to play the game out, — such 
was my enjoyment. ‘To what do I owe this gift, this second 
sight? Is it one of those qualities the abuse of which would 
lead to madness? I have never inquired into the source of 


this power ; I possess it and use it, that is all.’’ 


I have transcribed these lines, doubly interesting be- 
cause they illumine a little-known side of Balzac’s life, 
and exhibit in him the consciousness of that powerful in- 
tuitive faculty without which the completion of his work 
would have been impossible. Balzac, like Vishnu, the 
Indian god, possessed the gift of avatar, that is, of in- 
carnating himself in different bodies and of living as 
long as he pleased in them. Only, the number of 
Vishnu’s avatars is fixed at ten; the avatars of Balzac 
are innumerable, and besides he could produce them at 


will. Strange as it may seem to us in this nineteenth 


century of ours, Balzac was a seer; his gift of observa- 


ch bea ok oe oh oe ae oh abe oe cece eo ob fa eae cde de aoe 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


tion, his physiological perspicuity, his literary genius do 
not suffice to explain the infinite variety of the two or 
three thousand types which play a more or less im- 
portant part in the “ Comédie humaine.” He did not 
copy them, he lived them in his mind, he put on their 
dress, he assumed their habits, he entered their sur- 
roundings, he was themselves as long as necessary. 
Hence these consistent, logical beings which never 
contradict themselves, which are endowed with such 
a deep, genuine life, which — to make use of one of 
his expressions — compete with the official records of 
men’s lives. Real red blood flows in their veins, in- 
stead of the ink which ordinary authors introduce into 
their creations. But, on the other hand, Balzac pos- 
sessed that faculty in regard to the present only. He 
could transport himself in thought into the marquis, 
the financier, the bourgeois, the man of the people, the 
courtesan, but the shades of the past did not answer 
his call. He never was able, like Goethe, to evoke 
Fair Helen from the depths of antiquity and make her 
dwell within Faust’s Gothic manor. With two or 
three exceptions, his whole work is modern. He 
assimilated the living; he could not resuscitate the 


dead. History itself tempted him but little, as may 


AI 


che fe ober obe he te be oe abe ae cece obec feof oo ob cde ee ae ebec 
PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


be seen by a paragraph in the Introduction to the 


33 


“ Comédie humaine: — 


«© As one reads the dry and dull nomenclatures of facts 
called histories, who is there that does not perceive that writ- 
ers in Egypt, in Persia, in Greece, at Rome, have always for- 
gotten to give us the history of manners? ‘The passage of 
Petronius about the private life of the Romans irritates rather 


than satisfies our curiosity.’’ 


The blank left by the historians of vanished socie- 
ties, Balzac proposed to fill up as far as ours was con- 
cerned; and every one knows how faithfully he carried 


out the programme which he had laid out for himself: 


<<Society was to be the historian, I the secretary merely. 
By drawing up the inventory of vices and virtues, by collecting 
the principal facts of passions, by depicting characters, select- 
ing the chief features in society, composing types by combin- 
ing the traits of several homogeneous characters, I might 
perhaps manage to write a history forgotten by so many 
historians, —that of manners, With much patience and 
courage I might compose about France in the nineteenth 
century the book which we all regret, which Rome, Venice, 
Tyre, Memphis, Persia, India, have unfortunately not left us 
concerning their civilisations, and which, in imitation of the 
Abbé Barthélemy, the courageous and patient Monteil tried to 
write about the Middle Ages, but in a not very attractive 


form,’? 


42 


abe oboe abs oe obs ale obs obs abs cbr obo elle ole elroy ols obs cba of ole abe loaf 


HONORE DE BALZAC 

Let us return to the garret of the rue de Lesdi- 
guiéres. Balzac had not yet thought out the plan of 
the work which was to immortalise him. He was still 
seeking his way uneasily, laboriously, with much effort, 
trying everything, succeeding in nothing; yet he 
already possessed that obstinacy of work to which 
Minerva, however rebellious she may prove, is bound 
to yield to some day or another. He sketched comic 
operas, drew up plans of dramas and novels, of which 
Mme. de Surville ,has preserved the titles for us: 
“¢Stellay’ “ Cogsigrue,’ ‘Les deux Philosophes,’’ 
to say nothing of the terrible “Cromwell,” the lines 
of which cost him so much trouble, and were not 
much better than the line with which began his epic 
poem on the Incas. 

Imagine young Honoré, his legs wrapped up in a 
patched carrick, the upper portion of his body protected 
by an old shawl of his mother’s, on his head a sort of 
Dante-like cap, of which Mme. Balzac alone possessed 
the pattern, his coffee-pot on his left, his ink-bottle on his 
right, ploughing away with bowed brow, like an ox at 
the plough, the stony and untouched field of thought in 
which later he cut such fruitful furrows. His lamp 


shone like a star in the darkened house, the snow fell 


43 


che toa he oe abe ohooh of abe or cle obec boob a oe a ofoobe 


we we 


PORTRAITS OF TRAE Goay 


silently on the tiles, the wind blew through the door and 
window, “like Julou in his flute, but less agreeably.” 
If any belated passer-by had looked up to that 
obstinately flickering little light, he would certainly not 
have suspected that it was the dawn of one of the 
greatest glories of our age. Here is a sketch of the 
place, transposed, it is true, but very accurate, drawn 
by the author himself in the “ Peau de Chagrin,” the 


work in which he has put so much of himself : — 


«¢ A room which looked out upon the yards of the neigh- 
bouring houses, from the windows of which stuck out long 
poles covered with clothes. Nothing could be more hideous 
than that garret with its dirty, yellow walls, that smelled of 
wretchedness and called for a scholar. ‘The roof sloped down 
evenly, and the disjointed tiles allowed the sky to be seen. 
There was room enough for a table, a few chairs, and under 
the gable of the roof I could put my piano. I lived in that 
aerial sepulchre for nearly three years, working night and day, 
without stop or stay, with so much pleasure that study seemed 
to me the most beautiful thing, the successful solution of human 
life. The calm and silence which a scholar needs have a 
sweetness and an intoxication comparable to that of love. 
Study lends a sort of magic to all that surrounds us. ‘The 
mean desk on which I wrote and the brown stuff which coy- 
ered it, my piano, my bed, my armchair, the quaint design 


of the paper on the wall, my furniture, all these things became 


44 


abe abe alls ols ols alls alle able obs obs ob obeebe eels ole obs ebs ols ela olle of ol oe 


VIO OTS OTS ae CFO OTe COTO CFO HPO UTS WTO CTO CTO oe CTO TO CTO OFT ae we we 


HONORE DE (BA CAA 


living and humble friends of mine, the silent helpers of my 
future. How many a time have I not put my soul into them 
as I gazed upon them? As my eyes wandered along the 
broken moulding, I would come upon new ideas, upon a proof 
of my system, or words which I thought happily rendered 


inexpressible ideas.’’ 
In the same passage he alludes to his work : — 


‘¢] had undertaken an important piece of work, a play, 
which was very shortly to bring me renown, wealth, and 
entrance into that world in which I proposed to satisfy myself 
in the practice of the royal rights of a man of genius. You all 
took that masterpiece for the first mistake of a young fellow 
who had just left college, a child’s folly. Your jokes killed 


fruitful lines which have never again reappeared.”’ 

We recognise here the unfortunate ‘ Cromwell,” 
which, having been read to the family and its friends 
in solemn assembly, proved a complete failure. 
Honoré appealed from that sentence to an arbiter 
whom he accepted as competent, a kind old man, 
formerly a professor in the Polytechnic School. The 
verdict was that the author had better try anything at 
all except literature. What a loss for letters, what 
a blank in the human mind, if the young man_ had 
bowed to the experience of his elder and taken his 


advice! Yet it certainly was very sound, for there 


45 


Fe vie dre wie wie 


POR TRALTS OF 1 HESDAGY 


chee fe oto oe he oh oe oe abe che cdocde cheb ech cbr of ooh 


was not the least spark of genius, or even talent, 
visible in that rhetorical tragedy. 

Happily, Balzac, under the pseudonym of Louis 
Lambert, had not written in vain the “Theory of 
the Will” at the College of Vendome. He accepted 
the verdict, but merely as regarded tragedy. He | 
understood that he must not hope to walk in the foot- 
steps of Corneille and Racine, whom he then admired 
on trust, for never were there geniuses more different 
from his own. ‘The novel offered him a more con- 
venient mould, and he wrote at that time a great 
number of books which he did not sign and which 
he always disavowed. The Balzac whom we know 
and admire was still in limbo, and was vainly striving 
to emerge. Those who considered him fit to be a 
clerk only were apparently right, but perhaps even 
that resource would have failed him, for his fine hand 
must have already been spoiled by the writing of the 
crumpled, scratched, re-written, almost hieroglyphic 
drafts of the writer struggling with his idea and utterly 
careless of the form of his letters. 

So nothing had come from that rigorous claustration, 
from that hermit life in the Thebaid of which Raphael 
gives us the budget : — 


46 


«<'Three sous’ worth of bread, two sous’ worth of milk, and 
three sous’ worth of pork meat kept me from starvation, and 
maintained my brain in a state of singular lucidity. My 
lodging cost me three sous a day; I burned three sous’ worth 
of oil a night; I made my own room and wore flannel shirts 
in order not to spend more than two sous a day at the 
laundry. I warmed my room with coal, the price of which, 
divided by the number of days in the year, never amounted 
to more than two sous a day. I had clothes, linen, and shoes 
enough to last me three years; I made up my mind to dress 
only when I went to certain public lectures and to the libra- 
ries. My total expenses amounted to eighteen sous, — that 
left me two sous for unforeseen matters. I do not remember, 
during that long period of work, crossing the Pont des Arts 


or purchasing any water.”’ 


No doubt Raphael somewhat exaggerates the econ- 
omy, but Balzac’s letters to his sister show that the 
novel is not very far from the truth. “The old woman 
who figures under the title of Iris the Messenger, and 
who was seventy, could not be a very active house- 
keeper, so we find Balzac writing : — 

‘¢The news from my household is disastrous. Work 
interferes with cleanliness. ‘That rascal Ego is more and 
more neglectful of himself. He goes out every three or four 


days for purchases, goes to the nearest and least well stocked 


shops in the neighbourhood; the others are too far, and my 


47 


che te obe oho ae ahah abe abe abe abe cde cde ecb cde oe ce cde eae oe ceo 


ere we OTe 


POR TRACES) O Fo TRE oa 


lad at least saves shoe Jeather. So that your brother, who is 
destined to become so famous, is fed exactly like a great man, 
that is, he is starving. 

«¢ Another misfortune is that the coffee makes dreadful stains 
on the floor. It takes a great deal of water to repair the 
damage. Now as water does not come up to my heavenly 
garret, —it only comes down to it in rain storms, —I shall 
have to think, after purchasing the piano, of setting up a 
hydraulic machine, if my coffee continues to leak while master 


and servant are gaping.” 


Elsewhere, keeping up the joke, he scolds the lazy 
Ego, who leaves cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, 
flocks of dirt blowing under the bed, and a blinding 
dust covering the windows. In another letter he says, 
‘““T have eaten two melons. I shall make up for 
this by eating nuts and dry bread.” 

One of the few enjoyments he allowed himself was 
to go to the Botanical Garden or to the cemetery of 
Pere-Lachaise. From the summit of the cemetery 
hill he overlooked Paris, as did de Rastignac at the 
funeral of old Goriot. His eye ranged over the sea 
of slates and tiles which concealed so much luxury, so 
much misery, so many intrigues, so many passions. 
Like a young eagle, he gazed upon his prey, but he 


had yet neither wings nor beak nor talons, although 


48 


ee oe CTS OTe owe oe 


abe che ahs che che he abe che toe feo ce abe ache aoe oe fee 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


his eye could look straight at the sun. He used to 
say, as he looked at the tombs: “There are no fine 
epitaphs save these, — La Fontaine, Massenet, Moliére, 
—a single name which tells everything and which 
makes you think.” 

Those words were inspired by a vague, prophetic 
presentiment, which, alas! was realised too soon. 
On the slope of the hill, upon a tombstone below a 
bronze bust modelled after the marble bust by David, 


33 


the single word “ Balzac” tells everything and makes 
the solitary stroller reflect. 

The dietetic regimen recommended by Raphael 
might favour lucidity of the brain, but certainly it 
was very bad for a young man accustomed to a com- 
fortable family life. Fifteen months spent under these 
intellectual leads, more gloomy, unquestionably, than 
the leads of Venice, had turned the fresh-coloured 
youth from Tours, with his satiny, bright cheeks, 
into a pale, yellow Parisian skeleton, almost unrecog- 
nisable. Balzac returned to his father’s home, where 
the fatted calf was killed for the return of that most 
unprodigal son. 

I shall pass rapidly over that part of his life during 


which he endeavoured to secure independence by spec- 


bobibeb hb bbb bbb abba habe 


Te OFS oe we oe oe 


PORT RATI@ S(O F (DH EF Gia 


ulating in the publishing business; the lack of capital 
alone preventing his being successful. His attempt 
got him into debt, mortgaged his future, and, in spite 
of the earnest but perhaps somewhat dilatory help of 
his family, weighed him down with that rock of 
Sisyphus which he pushed so often up to the edge 
of the plateau, and which ever fell back crushingly 
upon his Atlas-like shoulders, that bore the whole 
world besides. His debts, which he considered it 
a sacred duty to pay, for they represented the for- 
tune of people who were dear to him, proved to be 
Necessity with her knotted whip, with her hand full 
of bronze nails, that worried him night and day with- 
out stay, and made him look upon an hour’s rest or 
distraction as a theft. It weighed painfully upon his 
whole life, and often made it unintelligible to any one 
not in the secret. And now these indispensable bio- 
graphical details have been given, let me come to my 
direct and personal impressions of Balzac. 

Balzac, with his mighty brain, Balzac, who was so 
penetrating a physiologist, so close an observer, Balzac, 
who had so much intuition, did not possess the literary 
gift. In him there was a great gulf fixed between 


thought and its expression. In his earlier days he 


50 


Sa vctenieerieaaam OM a Eh i Fur iS LB Ae aS am Se rR OH RA RII a (itr AAD RaW alae het en ae wn 


ce ofe oe eae oe he oe oe etek che cdecbe chee oooh oh ahah 


CFO oFO o%O OHO 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


despaired of ever crossing it. He threw into it, with- 
out ever filling it up, volume after volume, night- 
watch after night-watch, essay after essay; a whole 
library full of disowned books went into it. A man 
of less determined will would have been discouraged 
over and over again, but happily Balzac had an un- 
shakable trust in his genius, as yet unrecognised. He 
had resolved to become a great man, and he became 
one by incessantly projecting that fluid more powerful 
than electricity, which he has so subtly analysed in 
“ Louis Lambert.” In contradistinction to the writers 
of the Romanticist School, who were all noted for 
amazing completeness and fertility of execution, and 
who brought forth their fruits almost at the same time 
as their flowers, the bloom being, as it were, almost 
involuntary with them, Balzac, who equalled them all 
as a genius, could not find a way to express himself, 
or rather found it only after infinite trouble. Hugo 
said in one of his prefaces, with that Castilian pride 
of his, I do not possess the art of putting a beauty 
in the place of a defect, and I correct myself in 
another work.”’ But Balzac covered with erasures as 
many as ten different proofs, and when he saw me 


send back to the Chronique de Paris the proof of an 


51 


bee hehe bebe ch cheb cbebah ob chee 


Te ae CTS CYS OVO WS OFS CHS OTE OYE WE abe obese 


PO:-R RAS FS TEE Se 


O 


article written straight off on the corner of a table 
without any more than typographical corrections, he 
could not believe, however pleased with it he might 
otherwise be, that I had put all my talent into it. 
‘© If you had worked it over two or three times more, 
it would have been better,’”’ he would say. 

Setting himself up as an example, he would preach 
to me the strangest literary hygiene. I ought to shut 
myself up for two or three years, drink water, and eat 
lupins as did Protogenes; go to bed at six in the 
evening, rise at midnight, and work until morning; 
spend the day in revising, extending, cutting down, 
perfecting, polishing the work of the night before, 
correcting the proofs, taking notes, making the neces- 
sary studies, and especially live in the most absolutely 
chaste manner. He insisted at great length on this 
last recommendation, —a harsh one for a young man 
of twenty-four or twenty-five. In his opinion, real 
chastity developed the natural powers in the highest 
degree, and gave to those who practised it unsuspected 
power. I objected timidly that the greatest geniuses 
had not forbidden themselves love or passion, or even 
pleasure, and I would cite illustrious names. Balzac 


would shake his head and answer, ‘“* They would have 


52 


che ch he che che che abe che che abe cbr cred choo be bel chock efe oh cooks 


ore Fe eFs aie ee we jo GIO CHO CTS VFO CFO CHS CHO TO OFS VIS aie 


HONOREQ DE BAUZAC 


done far greater things if they had kept away from 
women.” 

The single concession that he would allow, and 
regretfully at that, was a half-hour’s interview with 
the beloved person each year. He allowed letters, — 
‘‘they formed the style.” 

He promised, if I would subject myself to this 
regimen, to make of me, with the natural talent which 
he was good enough to accord me, a writer of the first 
rank, It will readily be seen by my work that I have 
not followed that very wise plan of study. 

It must not be imagined that Balzac was joking 
when laying down a rule which Trappists and Car- 
thusians would have thought hard; he was truly con- 
vinced, and spoke with such eloquence that I several 
times conscientiously tried this method of acquiring 
genius. I rose several times at midnight, and after 
having drunk the inspiring coffee, brewed in accord- 
ance with the formula, I sat down before my table, 
on which sleep very soon bowed my head. The 
“Morte amoureuse,” published in the Chronique de 
Paris, was my single nocturnal work. 

At about this time Balzac had written for a review 


“‘Facino Cane,” the story of a Venetian noble who, 


53 


PORTRAT@ 5S: OF THE Vpee 


imprisoned in the dungeons of the Ducal Palace, had 
fallen by accident into the secret treasury of the 
Republic, a large portion of which he had carried off 
with the assistance of a jailer he had bribed. Facino 
Cane, who had become blind, and who played the 
clarinet under the vulgar name of Father Canet, had 
preserved in spite of his infirmity a second sight, so 
far as gold was concerned. He could divine its exist- 
ence through walls and vaults, and he offered the 
author at a wedding in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine 
to guide him, if he would pay his travelling expenses, 
to that vast mass of riches of which the fall of the 
Venetian Republic.had caused the location to be for- 
gotten. Balzac, as [ have said, lived in his characters, 
and at that moment he was Facino Cane himself, bar 
blindness, for never did more brilliant eyes flash in 
a human face. So he was dreaming only of barrels 
of gold, of heaps of diamonds and carbuncles, and by 
means of magnetism, with which he had long been 
familiar, he made somnambulists seek out the place 
of buried and lost treasure. He claimed to have thus 
learned, in the most accurate manner, the spot where, 
near the mountain of Pointe-a-Pitre, Toussaint ’Ouver- 


ture had buried his gold with the help of negroes who 
54 


che che abe ake os abe che abe che ofa choco oe cb che fe oboe co be obs ate 
HO READE BAUZACG 


were at once shot down. Poe’s “ Gold Bug” does 
not come up in cleverness of induction, in clearness 
of plan, in the divination of details, to the feverish 
recital which he made to me of the expedition to be 
attempted in order to become possessors of this treas- 
ure, which was far richer than that buried by Kidd at 
the foot of the tulip tree with the death’s head. 

I beg the reader not to laugh at me if I humbly 
confess that I soon shared Balzac’s belief. What 
brain could have resisted his amazing speech? Jules 
Sandeau also was soon seduced, and as two sure 
friends, two devoted, robust comrades were needed 
to dig at night on the spot indicated by the somnam- 
bulists, Balzac was kind enough to give each of us 
a fourth share of that prodigious wealth. One half 
was to be his, however, by right, as the discoverer and 
director of the undertaking. 

We were to purchase pickaxes, crowbars, and 
shovels, to embark them secretly on board a ship, to 
reach the place indicated by different ways so as not 
to excite suspicion, and having managed the business, 
to ship our riches on a barque chartered beforehand. 
In a word, it was a perfect novel, which would have 


been wonderful if Balzac had only written it instead 


25) 


oe eke he he abe oe oh oe che ee echo oe chee ede oe hoc 
PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


of speaking it. Needless to say, we did not dig up 
Toussaint lOuverture’s treasure, for we had not the 
money to pay for our passage, there being scarcely 
enough between the three of us to buy the pickaxes. 
The dream of sudden wealth, due to some strange and 
marvellous cause, often haunted Balzac’s brain. A 
few years before (in 1833) he had made a trip to 
Sardinia to examine the refuse of the silver mines 
abandoned by the Romans, which, having been treated 
by imperfect processes, must still, in his opinion, 
contain a great deal of metal. The idea was sound, 
and, imprudently imparted by him, made another 


man’s fortune. 


it 


I HAVE related the anecdote of ‘Toussaint l’Ouverture’s 
buried treasure, not for the pleasure of relating an 
amusing story, but because it is connected with the 
master-thought of Balzac, money. Assuredly no 
one was less mercenary than the author of the 
“© Comédie humaine,” but his genius made him foresee 
the mighty part which this metallic hero was to play 
in art, — a hero more interesting to modern society than 


the Grandisons, the Des Grieux, the Oswalds, the 


56 


tttebebhbteretetctoedttdddbte 
HONGREIDE BALZAC) T | 
Werthers, the Malek-Adhels, the Renés, Laras, Wa- 
verleys, Quentin Durwards, and others. Up to this 
time novelists had been content to depict a single pas- 
sion, that of love, but love in an ideal sphere, beyond 
the necessities and the small wants of life. The char- 
acters in these wholly psychological tales neither ate, 
drank, nor lodged anywhere; they had no account with 
their tailor; they lived, moved, and had their being in 
an environment as abstract as that of tragedy. If they 
proposed to travel, they took no passport, but put a tew 
handfuls of diamonds into their pocket and paid in that 
currency postilions who never failed to founder their 
horses at every relay. Mansions of vague architecture 
received them at the end of their travel, and they wrote 
with their blood interminable letters, dated from the 
Northern ‘Tower, to their loves. The heroines, no less 
immaterial, resembled Angelica Kauffman’s aqua-tintas. 
They wore great straw hats, hair curled in English 
fashion, and long dresses of white muslin bound at 
the waist with a blue scarf. 
His deep feeling for reality made Balzac understand 
that the modern life he desired to depict was domi- 
nated by one great fact, —- money; and in the “ Peau 


de Chagrin ”’ he was courageous enough to represent a 


a7 


deseo teak ob hee chee techecbecdeel check cb cb oh chek 
PORSADRRMIET Si-O THE DAY 


lover anxious not only to know whether he has touched 
the heart of the woman he loves, but also whether he 
will have money enough to pay the cab in which he is 
taking her home. ‘This is perhaps the greatest boldness 
which any man has allowed himself in literature, and it 
would alone suffice to make Balzac immortal. The 
amazement it created was profound, and purists grew 
wroth at this infraction of the laws of the novel; but 
all the young fellows who, going to spend an evening 
with a lady, wore white gloves which had been cleaned 
with rubber, had traversed Paris like dancers on the 
tips of their shoes and feared a splash of mud more 
than a pistol shot, sympathised, because they had felt 
it, with the anguish of Valentin, and were doubly in- 
terested in the hat which he cannot replace and which 
he preserves with solicitous care. At times of greatest 
want, the discovery of one of the five-franc pieces 
slipped between the papers in the drawer by the 
modest sympathy of Pauline produced the effect of the 
most romantic, startling situation on the stage, or of 
the intervention of a Peri in Arabian tales. Who is 
there that has not discovered in a day of distress, for- 


gotten in his trousers pocket or in a vest, a noble 


crown-piece which turned up exactly at the right time 


58 


che tech ae oe oe ce he oh a cabo checdeabecbe doce oh abe 


ore ete ote wee 


Hi ON@IR PUD E BA LAA G 


and saved one from the misfortune which a youth 
most dreads, — the inability, when with the woman he 
loves, to pay for a carriage, a bouquet, a footstool, a 
theatre programme, to tip the box-opener, or some such 
trifle? 

Balzac, besides, excels in depicting youth, poor as it 
almost always is, engaged in its first struggle with life, 
a prey to the temptations of pleasure and luxury, but 
bearing up under great poverty, thanks to its high 
hopes. Valentin, Rastignac, Bianchon, d’Arthez, Lu- 
cien de Rubempré, Lousteau, have all eaten the hard 
bread of poverty, a strengthening food for a robust 
stomach, but indigestible for weak ones. Balzac does 
not lodge all those handsome young fellows with- 
out a sou in conventional garrets hung with chintz, 
with windows festooned with sweet peas and looking 
out upon gardens; he does not make them eat “ simple 
dishes prepared by the hands of nature; ” he does not 
clothe them in plain but convenient garments. He 
puts them into a common boarding-house, such as 
Mother Vauquer’s, or sticks them under the arch of a 
roof, makes them lean on the greasy tables of the 
meanest eating-houses, clothes them in black coats 


with whitened seams, and is not afraid to send them to 


59 


thot abe ake oe che ohooh che abe cde oad ohe ool che oe abe cdo he hee 


PORTRATTS OF Th teaa 


& 


the pawn-shop if they still possess — which is not 
usual, —their father’s watch. 

O Corinne, you who on Cape Miseno let your 
snow-white arm hang upon your ivory lyre while the 
son of Albion, draped in a splendid new cloak and 
wearing boots beautifully polished, contemplates and 
listens to you in an elegant attitude, — what would you, 
Corinne, have said of such heroes? Yet they possess 
a quality which Oswald lacks, — they live a life so real 
that one feels as if one had met them many a time. 
No wonder, then, that Pauline, Delphine de Nucingen, 
the Princess de Cadignan, Madame de Bargeton, 
Coralie, Esther are madly in love with them. 

At the time when the first novels signed by Balzac 
appeared, people did not long for — or rather, fever- 
ishly covet — gold as they do now. California was yet 
to be discovered; there scarcely existed more than a 
few miles of railways; the future development of this 
form of transportation was not foreseen, and railways 
were looked upon as something like slides which were 
to take the place of the switchbacks, that had fallen 
into desuetude. ‘The public was, so to speak, ignorant 
of what is now called business, and bankers alone 


speculated on ’Change. ‘The turning over of capital, 


60 


HONORE “DE BALZAC 


the stream of gold, the calculations, the arithmetic, the 
importance given to money in works which were even 
then accepted as merely romantic fictions, and not as 
serious paintings of life, greatly astounded subscribers 
to circulating libraries, and critics summed up the 
amounts expended or staked by the author. ‘The mil- 
lions of Father Grandet gave rise to arithmetical dis- 
cussions, and serious people, moved by the enormous 
totals, doubted the financial capacity of Balzac,—a 
very remarkable capacity, nevertheless, as was later 
recognised. Stendhal said, with a sort of disdainful 
conceit of style, “ Before writing I always read three 
or four pages of the Civil Code to get my tone.” 
Balzac, who understood money so well, also discovered 
poems and dramas in the Code. The “ Contrat de 


39 


Mariage,” in which he contrasts, under the characters 
of Matthias and Solonnet, the old and the new style of 
lawyer, is as interesting as the most exciting comedy 
of cloak and sword. The story of the bankruptcy in 
the “Grandeur et Décadence de César Birotteau,”’ is as 
absorbing as the narrative of the fall of an empire; the 
fight between the castle and the peasant’s hut in the 
«¢ Paysans,” is as full of alternations as the siege of 


Troy. Balzac knows how to impart life to an estate, 


61 


REAKLAHELAKLALAALALAL LAL LAL LLS 
PORTRAI®@S' OF (DHE wwe 


to a house, to an inheritance, to capital; he makes 
them into heroes and heroines, whose adventures are 
read with feverish anxiety. 

These elements thus newly introduced into the 
novel did not at first please readers. The philosoph- 
ical analysis, the detailed descriptions of characters, the 
accounts so minute that they seemed meant for poster- 
ity, were looked upon as regrettably diffuse, and usually 
were skipped by the reader eager to reach the end of 
the story. Later on it was seen that the author’s main 
object was not to weave more or less complicated 
plots, but to depict the whole of society from top to 
bottom, the members of it, and their abodes; then the 
immense variety of his types was admired. Was it 
not Alexandre Dumas who said: ‘Shakespeare, the 
man who, next to God, has been the greatest creator”? 
This would be far more correct applied to Balzac, for 
never indeed did so many living creatures emerge from 
a human brain. 

At this time (1836) Balzac had already conceived 
the plan of his “Comédie humaine” and was fully 
conscious of his own genius. He skilfully connected 
the works which had already appeared with his general 


idea, and found a place for them in the categories 


62 


$eeeetetreetetettttstttses 


= 


PUOW. OR Fa. EY BA Le ZAA€ 


which he made up systematically. Some purely fanci- 
ful tales are unquestionably not in full harmony with 
it, in spite of the joinings which he made subsequently, 
but these details are lost in the vastness of the mass, 
like architectural remains in a different style in a 
splendid edifice. 

I have said that Balzac worked with difficulty, and, 
determined to do well, would throw back a dozen 
times into the crucible the metal which had not ac- 
curately filled the mould. Like Bernard Palissy, he 
would have burned his furniture, the floor, and even 
the beams of his house, to keep up the fire of his 
furnace so that the experiment should not fail. The 
most. pressing necessity never drove him to allow the 
publication of a book on which he had not expended 
his utmost efforts, and he repeatedly gave proof of 
admirable literary conscientiousness. His corrections, 
so numerous that they almost amounted to different 
editions of the same idea, were charged against him 
by the publishers, whose profits were absorbed by 
them, and his remuneration, often small considering 
the value of the work and the labour it had cost him, 


was diminished by so much. ‘The promised payments 


were not always made when due, and in order to meet 


Lebebhbhbeebtetete tt edt dks 
PORTRAITS S" OF “To E Sia 


what he laughingly called his floating debt, Balzac dis- 
played prodigious resources of mind and an activity 
which would have completely filled the life of an 
ordinary man. But when, seated before his table in 
his monk’s robe in the silence of the night, he found 
himself with white leaves on which fell the light of 
his seven candles concentrated by a green shade, when 
he took up the pen, he forgot everything, and then 
began a struggle more terrible than that of Jacob with 
the angel, the struggle between the form and the idea. 
In these nightly battles from which he emerged every 
morning worn but victorious, when the cold hearth on 
which the fire had gone out cooled the atmosphere of 
the room, his head smoked and from his body rose a 
steam as visible as that which rises from the bodies of 
horses in winter. Sometimes a single phrase took up 
the whole night. It was written, re-written, twisted, 
kneaded, hammered, lengthened, shortened, put in a 
hundred different ways, and, strange to say, the neces- 
sary, the absolute form came only after all approximate 
forms had been exhausted. No doubt the metal flowed 
often in a fuller, richer way, but there are very few 
pages in Balzac’s works which remain as he first 


wrote them. 


64 


che oe obs abs ole elle abe abe chs obs abr arcs fe ale ole abe be abe ob cle obs hoofs 
HONORE DE a We 


His way of working was this: When he had a long 
time borne and lived a subject within himself, he jotted 
on a few pages in a rapid, broken, erratic, almost 
hieroglyphic hand a sort of scenario, which he sent to 
the printer, who returned the pages in the shape of 
posters, —that is, of single galleys in the centre of 
large sheets. He read carefully those posters, which 
already gave to his work in embryo that impersonal 
character which manuscript does not possess, and he 
applied to this first sketch the powerful critical faculty 
he possessed, judging his own writing as if the work 
were another man’s. He had something to work on 
then, he approved or disapproved, he maintained or he 
corrected, but mostly he added. Lines, starting from 
the beginning, the middle or the end of sentences, 
went off to the margin on the right, the left, the top 
and the bottom, leading to developments, to inter- 
calations, to inserts, to epithets, to adverbs. After a 
few hours’ work, the page looked like a final burst of 
fireworks drawn by a child. From the original text 
sprang rockets of style which exploded in every direc- 
tion. [Then there were simple crosses, and crosses 
recrossed, like those of heraldry, stars, suns, Arabic 


or Roman numerals, Greek or French letters, all 


5 65 


LELLLALEALLALALELELAL LSS 
PORTRAYED S (0:8) civ hiti ea 


imaginable signs of reference which mingled with the 
lines. Strips of paper pasted on with wafers or stuck 
on with pins, were added to margins that proved in- 
sufficient, and rayed with lines, in fine writing to save 
room, —lines which were themselves full of correc- 
tions, for one was scarcely made than it was again 
improved upon. ‘The printed poster disappeared almost 
altogether in the centre of this cabalistic-looking scrawl, 
which compositors passed to each other, none of them 
being willing to work longer than one hour at a time 
at Balzac’s manuscript. [he next day the printer sent 
back the posters, which, the corrections having been 
made, were already twice as numerous as_ before. 
Balzac set to work again, still developing, adding a 
trait, a detail, a picture, some remark on manners, a 
characteristic expression, a striking sentence, com- 
pelling the form to render the idea more closely, 
getting ever closer to the thought in his mind, 
choosing, as does a painter, the final line out of 
three or four contours. Often after he had fin- 
ished -that terrific work, with that intensity of atten- 
tion of which he alone was capable, he would perceive 
that he had failed to express his thought, that an 


episode was too prominent, that a figuré which he 


66 


cele ob eae os chee abe ected che cde obese cee oe obo 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


intended to be secondary in the general effect stood 
out too prominently, and with one stroke of the 
pen he would courageousiy destroy the result of four 
or five nights of labour. He was really heroic under 
such circumstances. 

Six, seven, sometimes ten proofs came back, deleted, 
worked over, before Balzac’s desire for perfection was 
satisfied. I have seen at the Jardies, on the shelves 
of a library composed exclusively of his own works, 
every different proof of the same book, from the first 
draft to the final printed book, bound in a separate 
volume. A comparison of the thought of Balzac in 
its different states would be a very interesting study, 
and would teach valuable lessons in literature. Near 
these volumes a sinister-looking book bound in black 
morocco, without tooling or gilding, drew my attention. 
“Take it,” said Balzac; “ it is an unpublished work 
which is of some value.” The title was “ Melancholy 
Accounts.” ‘The book contained a list of debts, 
dates when notes fell due, the amounts given trades- 
men, and all the frightful papers’ which the Stamp 
Office legalises. ‘This volume, through a sort of 
quizzical contrast, was placed side by side with the 


“Contes drélatiques,”’ “of which it is not the continua- 


67 


tion,” laughingly added the author of the * Comédie 
humaine.” 

In spite of his laborious method of work, Balzac 
produced a great deal, thanks to his superhuman will, 
which was served by his athletic temperament and his 
monkish mode of life. For two or three months at a 
time, when he had some important work under way, 
he wrote for sixteen to eighteen hours out of the 
twenty-four. He gave to the body six hours only of a 
heavy, feverish, convulsive sleep, brought on by the 
torpor of digestion after a hastily eaten meal. At such 
times he disappeared completely, his best friends lost 
track of him; but he soon emerged from under ground, 
waving a masterpiece above his head, laughing with 
that hearty laugh of his, applauding himself with per- 
fect artlessness, and bestowing on himself praise which 
I am bound to say he never sought of any one. No 
author cared less than he did about the reviews and 
notices of his books. * He allowed his reputation to 
grow up of itself without helping it on, and he never 
paid court to newspaper men. Besides, that would 
have taken up his time. He delivered his copy, 
drew his money, and hastened to distribute it to 


creditors who often waited for him in the yard of 


68 


she cke che oleh oh eck ch ob che cbecde de check che cbe cdo ob abet 


He CFO Oe me vis ese 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


the newspaper office, as did, for instance, the builder 
of the Jardies. 

Sometimes he would come to my rooms in the 
morning, breathless, exhausted, dazed by the fresh air, 
like Vulcan escaping from his forge. He would throw 
himself on a divan. His long night-watches had made 
him hungry, and he would crush sardines in butter, 
making a sort of pomade which recalled to him the 
Tours rillettes, and which he spread. upon slices of 
bread. That was his favourite dish. No sooner had 
he dined than he would fall asleep, asking me to 
awaken him in an hour’s time. Disregarding his re- 
quest, I would respect his well-earned sleep and take 
care that no noise was made in the house. But when 
Balzac awoke and saw the twilight spreading its grey 
shadows throughout the heavens, he would spring up 
and overwhelm me with insults, calling me traitor, rob- 
ber, and murderer; I had made him lose ten thousand 
francs, for if I had awakened him, he might have 
thought of a novel which would have brought in that 
amount, to say nothing of the profits from subsequent 
editions. I was the cause of the gravest catastrophes 
and of unmentionable disorders; I had made him miss 


appointments with bankers, publishers, and duchesses ; 


69 


deo feo oe oe oe oe ae recta e cece chee ce ce ceo cece 
PORT. RADPTS (O F( TUE 


he would not be prepared now to pay his notes when 
they came due; that fatal sleep would cost him mil- 
lions. But I was already-accustomed to the prodigious 
arithmetical sums which Balzac, starting from the 
smallest amounts, carried on to the most startling totals, 
and I was easily consoled on seeing his fine colour 
reappear upon his rested face. 

Balzac at that time was living at Chaillot, rue des 
Batailles, in a house from which there was a lovely 
prospect, —the Seine, the Champ de Mars, the dome 
of the Invalides, a large portion of Paris, and in the 
distance the hills of Meudon. He had furnished the 
house rather luxuriously, for he knew that in Paris a 
man of talent who is poor is not much believed in, and 
that the appearance of wealth often brings the reality. 
It was at this time that he indulged in elegance and 
dandyism, that he wore his famous blue coat with but- 
tons of massive gold, that he carried the enormous 
stick with its turquoise top, that he went to the Bouffes 
and the Opera, and appeared more frequently in soci- 
ety, where his brilliant high spirits made him always 
most welcome, —a frequentation which, besides, he 
turned to account, for in the course of his visits he 


came upon more than one model. It was not easy to 


79° 


doske chee be ob de ok de de cece oe cece abe ceeded oe ebooks 


OTe we oe we 


HONOKE@DE BALZAC 


enter his house, which was better guarded than ever 
was the Garden of the Hesperides. Two or three 
pass-words were necessary, and Balzac often changed 
them for fear they should become known. I can 
remember some. You had to say to the porter, 


b 


*¢’The plum season has come,” and he allowed you to 
cross the threshold. To the servant who answered the 
bell you had to whisper, “I am bringing Belgian lace.” 
If you could assure the valet that “ Madame Bertrand 
was in good health,’ you were at last introduced. 
This nonsense greatly delighted Balzac. It may have 
been necessary to keep away bores and other visitors 
still more disagreeable. In the “ Fille aux yeux d’or,” 
there is a description of the drawing-room in the house 
of the rue des Batailles. It is scrupulously accurate, 
and the reader may be interested in an account of the 
lion’s den by the lion himself. Not a single detail has 


been added or omitted : — 


«¢ One half of the boudoir formed a softly graceful circular 
line which contrasted with the perfectly square other half, in 
the centre of which stood a mantelpiece in white marble and 
gold. The entrance was through a side door concealed by a 
rich portiére of tapestry, opposite a window. ‘The horse-shoe 


end was furnished with a real Turkish divan, —that is, a 


71 


tttetebetbttttetdbtttd ttt 
POR TRASES OF “Reyes 


mattress thrown on the ground, but a mattress as broad as 
a bed; a divan fifty feet in length, of white cashmere orna- 
mented with puffs of black and crimson silk arranged in loz- 
enges. The back of this huge bed rose several inches above 
the cushions, which made it still richer by the tastefulness of 
their ornamentation. ‘The boudoir was hung with a red 
stuff, over which was laid Indian muslin fluted like Corinthian 
columns, the fluting alternately concave and convex, and held 
in at the top and bottom by a band of crimson-coloured stuff 
on which were drawn black arabesques. Under the muslin 
the crimson turned to rose-colour, an amorous colour, re- 
peated by the window curtains, which were of Indian muslin 
lined with rose taffeta and adorned with crimson and black 
fringes. Six silver-gilt bracket candelabra, each bearing a 
wax taper, were fixed to the hangings at equal distances to 
give light to the divan. The ceiling, from the centre of 
which hung a dulled silver-gilt chandelier, was of sparkling 
whiteness. ‘The cornice was gilded. The carpet resembled 
an Oriental shawl, the pattern of which it reproduced, and 
it recalled the poetry of the Persian land where it had 
been wrought by the hands of slaves. The furniture was 
covered with white cashmere, relieved by black and crimson 
ornaments. ‘The clock and candelabra were of white marble. 
The only table in the room was covered with a cashmere 
shawl ; elegant Hower-stands held roses of all kinds, and white 
or red flowers.”’ 


I may add that on the table stood a superb inkstand in 


gold and malachite, no doubt the gift of some admirer. 


tbbbbhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbd th 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


It was with childish satisfaction that Balzac showed 
me this boudoir, made out of a square drawing-room, 
and necessarily leaving empty places in the corners of 
the rounded half. When I had sufficiently admired 
the coquettish splendour of the room, the luxury of 
which would not strike one so much to-day, Balzac 
opened a secret door and led me into a dark passage 
behind the hemicycle. At one of the corners was a 
narrow iron bedstead; in the other there was a table 
“with all necessary materials for writing,’ as M. 
Scribe says in his stage directions. It was there that 
Balzac took refuge in order to work safe from any 
surprise and any investigation. 

The partition was covered with several thicknesses 
of cloth and paper so as to cut off any sound from one 
side or the other. In order to be certain that none 
could reach him from the drawing-room, Balzac asked 
me to go back into the room and shout as loud as [ 
could. He could still hear me a little, so more gray 
paper had to be pasted on to completely deaden the 
sound. All these mysterious ways greatly puzzled me, 
and I asked the reason of them. Balzac gave me a 
reason which Stendhal would have approved, but which 


modern prudery prevents my repeating. ‘The fact is 


73 


cho obe abe choco abe che oe che che drcbecde boobed oh 

PORTRADTDS. (OF! Ohi s 
that he was already weaving in his mind the scene 
between Henry de Marsay and Paquita, and he was 
anxious to know whether the cries of the victim in a 
drawing-room thus fitted could reach the ears of the 
other inhabitants of the house. 

He entertained me in that same room at a splendid 
dinner, for which he lighted with his own hand all the 
tapers in the silver-gilt candelabra, the chandelier, and 
the candelabra on the mantelpiece. ‘The guests were 
the Marquis de Belloy and Louis Boulanger the 
painter. Although very sober and abstemious usually, 
Balzac did not hesitate from time to time to indulge in 
a little good cheer. He ate with jovial gormandism 
which gave one an appetite, and he drank like Panta- 
gruel. Four bottles of the white wine of Vouvray, one 
of the headiest known, had absolutely no effect upon 
his strong head, and merely gave more sparkle to his 
wit. What rare stories he told us! Rabelais, 
Beroalde de Verville, Eutrapel, Poggio, Straparola, the 
Queen of Navarre, and all the doctors of the gay 
science would have acknowledged in him a disciple 


and a master. 


74 


the che obs ob che che abe chee che obs abe coche chlo obs oly cbs oll ob cle obs abe abe ole 
HIONORB VDE” BATA SO 


One of Balzac’s dreams was of a heroic, devoted 
friendship, —two souls, two courages, two minds 
united in the same will. Pierre and Jaffer in Otway’s 
“¢ Venice Preserved” struck him very much, and he 
refers to them repeatedly. The ‘ Histoire des Treize”’ 
is merely the development of this idea, —a powerful 
unit composed of multiple beings all working blindly 
for an end agreed upon by all. Every one knows what 
striking, mysterious, terrible effects he drew from it in 
“‘ Ferragus,” “ La Duchesse de Langeais,” “La Fille 
aux yeux d’or;”’ but real life and mental life were 
never wholly separated by Balzac as they are by other 
authors, and his creations followed him beyond his 
study. He wished to form an association after the 
fashion of that which united Ferragus, Montriveau, 
Ronquerolles, and other comrades; only, he did not 
propose to emulate their bold enterprises. A certain 
number of friends were to help each other on every 
occasion and to strive to the best of their ability to help 
on the success of the one selected, with, of course, the 
understanding that the latter should in his turn work 


for the others. Deeply infatuated with his project, 


fit) 


HLELE ALAA SASH etttsetetee 
PORTRAITS OF “Tt Bias 


Balzac recruited a few friends whom he brought to- 
gether only after taking as many precautions as if he 
were organising a political society or a Carbonari vente. 
The quite needless mystery greatly tickled him, and he 
set about carrying out his idea in the most serious 
fashion possible. When he had selected his adepts, he 
called them together and informed them of the purpose 
of the society. It is unnecessary to say that every one 
at once fell in with his views and that the statutes 
were adopted with enthusiastic unanimity. No one 
possessed to such a degree as Balzac the power of daz- 
zling, exciting, and intoxicating the coolest heads, the 
most solid intellects. He had an overflowing, tumult- 
uous, compelling eloquence which carried you off, strive 
as you might to resist. It was impossible to make any 
objections ; he immediately overwhelmed you with such 
a deluge of words that you had perforce to keep silence. 
Besides, he had a reply always ready, and cast on you 
such lightning-like glances, so brilliant, so full of mag- 
netism, that he filled you with his own desire. The 
association, which numbered among its members G. de 
C., Léon Gozlan, Louis Desnoyers, Jules Sandeau, 
Merle, who was called Handsome Merle, myself, anda - 


few others whom it is unnecessary to name, was called 


76 


choo ofa che ech che sched cde cle cla oe ofc oe oe foo 


we we te GVO CTS CFO UES VIS 


HONORE IDE BALZAC 


‘©The Red Horse.” Why “ The Red Horse,” you 
may say, rather than the Golden Lion or the Cross of 
Malta? Because the first meeting of the initiated took 
place at a restaurant on the Quai de |’Entrepét, at the 
end of the Tournelle Bridge. ‘The sign, a red horse, 
suggested to Balzac the quaint, unintelligible, cabalistic 
name of his society. When any project had to be 
framed, when any steps had to be agreed upon, Balzac, 
who had been unanimously elected Grand Master of 
the order, sent by one of the initiated to each horse 
(that was the slang name borne by the members among 
themselves), a letter on which was drawn a little red 
steed, with these words, ‘Stable, on such a day and at 
such a place.” The place was occasionally changed, 
lest curiosity or suspicion should be aroused. In so- 
ciety, although we all were acquainted with each other 
and had long been so for the most part, we were bound 
to avoid speaking to each other, or at least, to speak 
very coldly, so as to remove any thought of connivance. 
Often in a drawing-room, Balzac would pretend that 
he was meeting me for the first time, and with winks 
and grimaces like those of actors in their asides, he 
would draw my attention to his cleverness and seem to 


say to me, “ See how cleverly I am playing the game!” 


a 


bebtebbtbtttttetttttttttts 
PORTRAPSHOF “Ichi eee 


What did “The Red Horse” propose todo? To 
change the government, to institute a new religion, to 
found a school of philosophy, to master men, or seduce 
women? Much less than that. We were to get hold 
of the papers, to manage the theatres, to get elected to 
the Academy, to be made companions or knights of 
ever so many orders, and to end our days modestly as 
peers of France, ministers, and millionaires. It was 
very easy to do, according to Balzac; all that was 
needed was to work in harmony, and our modest 
ambition proved the moderation of our character. That 
devil of a man had such a powerful sense of vision that 
he described to each of us, down to the smallest details, 
the splendid and glorious life which our association 
would secure for us. As we listened to him, we 
already saw ourselves leaning, in some fine mansion, 
on white marble mantelpieces, red ribbons around our 
necks, stars of brilliants on our breasts, receiving 
affably political, artistic, and literary celebrities, all of 
them amazed at our mysterious and rapid fortune. “The 
future did not exist for Balzac; with him everything 
was in the present. When he evoked the future, he 
drew it out of its haze and made it tangible. His ideas 


were so vivid that they became real to him. If he 


78 


— 


chee ohh oh hh be cb cbedhe leche ole cheb debe hob 


eae we G18 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


spoke of a dinner, he ate it while he described it; of 
a carriage, he felt its soft cushions and its springs; 
perfect comfort, deep satisfaction were then depicted 
on his features, although possibly he was actually 
hungry and walking over a sharp pavement with 
worn-out shoes. 

The whole company was to push, praise, laud, in 
articles, in notices, in conversation, any member wha 
had just published a book or had a play performed. 
Whoever had shown hostility to one of the “horses ” 
was to draw down on himself the kicks of the whole 
stable. ‘The Red Horse” was unforgiving. ‘The 
culprit became a mark for hostile criticisms, weari- 
some iterations, pin-pricks, sarcasms, and other means 
of driving a man to despair well known to the smaller 
fry of the press. 

I smile as, after so many years, I betray the innocent 
secret of that literary free-masonry which had no other 
result than a few notices of a book the success of 
which did not call for such help; but at the time I 
took the matter seriously; I imagined we were the 
Thirteen themselves in very deed, and I was surprised 
to find that obstacles still existed, — but this world is 


so badly made. I used to put on an important, mys- 


79 


ahs oe ols abe abe abe ohh che abe abe obs abe che obs abe ole obs obs abe obo che alls oho ole 


JOO CUS OO CTS OF age we Us he oe abe obs obs abe ebe obe obs obs obe 


PORTRABIS \O F EVE 


terious air as I elbowed other men, poor dullards who 
had no suspicion of my power. Aftet four or five 
meetings “The Red Horse’’ ceased to live, most of 
the “horses” not having the wherewithal to pay for 
their oats at the symbolical manger, and the association 
which was to appropriate everything was dissolved be- 
cause the members often lacked five francs, the price 
of the meal. So each one of us plunged back by him- 
self into the battle of life, and fought his own fight; 
and that is why Balzac never belonged to the Academy, 
and died a knight of the Legion of Honour only. 

Yet the idea was a sound one, for Balzac, as he 
himself says of Nucingen, could not possibly have a 
poor idea. Others who have succeeded turned it to 
account without shrouding it in the same romanesque 
fancifulness. 

Thrown by one chimera, Balzac immediately 
climbed on another and set off for another trip 
into Fairyland, with that childish artlessness which 
was so naturally united in him to the deepest sagacity 
and the craftiest mind. 

How many a strange project did he unfold to me, 
how many a quaint paradox did he maintain, and 


always with the same good faith. Sometimes he 


So 


bbb bbb bbb bbb ht 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


maintained that one ought to live at a cost of not more 
than nine sous a day; at others, he insisted that a hun- 
dred thousand francs was the least with which one 
could be comfortable. Once, having been asked by 
me to figure up the items, he replied to my objection 
that there were still tkirty thousand francs unspent, 
with: ‘¢ Well, that will do for the butter and radishes. 
What kind of a house is that which does not spend 
thirty thousand francs in radishes and butter?” I 
wish I could paint the glance of sovereign contempt 
which he let fall on me as he uttered that triumphant 
reply. His glance meant: ‘ Decidedly, Théo is but a 
poor fool, a skinned rat,a mean mind. He cannot 
understand life on a great scale, and has never eaten 
anything but Breton salt butter.” 

The public became much interested in the Jardies 
when Balzac purchased the place with the honour- 
able intention of securing a property for his mother. 
Every one who travelled by the railway which passes 
by Ville-d’Avray looked curiously at the little house, 
half cottage, half chalet, which rose upon the clay 
slope. 

The ground, according to Balzac, was the best pos- 


sible. Formerly, he maintained, a certain famous wine 


6 81 


ah be abs che abe he De abe che be abe chee abe a oh abe oe che hoc fe abel; 


PORTRASES (OF “Tepe tay 


was grown there, and the grapes, thanks to an unparal- 
leled exposure, cooked themselves ripe, like the Tokay 
grapes on the Bohemian hills. It is true that the sun 
had ample opportunity to ripen the grapes on this spot, 
for there was but asingle tree. Balzac endeavoured to 
enclose his property with walls, which became famous 
by their perseveringly falling down, or sliding in a heap 
down the too steep slope; and he dreamed of raising 
on this land, favoured by heaven, the most fabulous 
and the most exotic crops. Here naturally comes in 
the story of the pine-apples; a story which has been 
so often repeated that I should not tell it again but that 
I am able to add to it a genuinely characteristic trait. 
This was the plan: One hundred thousand pine-apple 
plants were to be set in the garden of the Jardies, 
transformed into hot-houses, which would require but 
little heating, thanks to the very sunny exposure. The 
pine-apples were to be sold at five francs, instead of 
the usual price of twenty-five francs, —that is, they 
would bring in five hundred thousand francs. From 
this sum was to be deducted one hundred thousand 
francs for the expenses of cultivation, glazing, and 
heating; there remained, therefore, four hundred thou- 


sand francs net profit, which would give the happy 


82 


chokes eke os te che ch oh chet cbecbe cde cbc ch cheb cheek 


eye ere ee e7e vfs ef efe oF VTS YO 


HONORE? DE BAHZAC 


owner a splendid income, —‘“ without writing a word 
of copy,” he would add. ‘That was nothing: Balzac 
framed a thousand plans of the sort. But the beauty 
of it was that we hunted together on the Boulevard 
Montmartre for a shop in which to sell the yet un- 
planted pine-apples. “The shop was to be painted 
black with gold lines, and to have a sign in huge 
letters, “¢ Jardies Pine-apples.”’ 

As far as Balzac was concerned, the hundred thou- 
sand pine-apples were already shooting up their aigrettes 
of dentellated leaves above their great golden, lozenged 
cones under vast glass roofs; he could see them; he 
enjoyed the high temperature of the hot-house, he 
breathed in its tropical perfume with dilated and de- 
lighted nostrils. And when, having returned to his 
room, he gazed, leaning on the window, at the snow 
which was silently falling upon the bare slopes, even 
then he scarcely lost his illusion. Yet he did take my 
advice not to hire the shop until the following year, so 
as to avoid useless expense. 

I am writing down my remembrances as they come 
back to me, without trying to connect what must 
necessarily be unconnected. Besides, as Boileau used 


to say, transitions are the great difficulty in poetry, — 


83 


che boob ae oe oh ae oe oe abe oe check feo ce feo ae ooo abe abe 
PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


and in articles, I might add; but modern journalists 
have neither so much conscience nor especially so 
much leisure as the Regent of Parnassus. 

Madame de Girardin professed for Balzac a lively 
admiration, for which he was grateful and in return 
for which he paid her frequent visits, although he was 
rightly very chary of his time and his working-hours. 
Never did any woman possess to so great a degree as 
Delphine — as we allowed ourselves to call her famil- 
iarly among ourselves —the gift of stirring up the 
minds of her guests. In her company one was always 
in good spirits, and every one left the room delighted 
with himself. “There was no pebble so hard that she 
could not make a spark flash from it, and with Balzac, 
as you will easily imagine, it was not necessary to 
strike the steel long. He sparkled at once and took 
fire. Balzac was not exactly what is called a con- 
versationalist, quick in repartee, throwing a clever, 
decisive remark into a discussion, changing the subject 
as the talk goes, touching lightly on everything and 
never going beyond a half-smile. He had an irresist- 
ible rush, eloquence, and fire of conversation, and as 
everybody kept silence to listen to him — in his case, 


to the general satisfaction-——the conversation rapidly 


84 


ch fe ole be ee oh tected cece ce bee oes of ec 


ope ons 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


a 


turned into a monologue. His starting-point was 
soon forgotten and he passed from anecdotes to philo- 
sophical reflections, from observations of manners to 
descriptions of places. As he spoke, his face flushed, 
his eyes became peculiarly brilliant, his voice assumed 
different inflections, and sometimes he would burst 
out laughing, amused by the buffoon apparitions which 
he saw before he described them. In this way he 
used to announce, by a sort of trumpet-blare, the 
arrival of his caricatures and his jokes, and the listen- 
ers soon shared his hilarity. Although we were then 
in the days of dreamers, long-haired like weeping 
willows, of weepers in skiffs, and of Byronian, disillu- 
sioned youth, Balzac possessed that robust and power- 
ful gaiety which Rabelais is supposed to have shared, 
and which Moliére exhibited in his plays only. ‘The 
broad laugh upon his sensual lips was that of a kindly 
god whom the sight of the human marionettes amuses, 
and who does not worry over anything because he 
understands everything and sees both sides at once. 
Neither the troubles attendant on his position, so 
often precarious, nor money worries, nor the fatigue 
of excessive work, nor his claustration for study, nor 


his renunciation of all the pleasures of life, nor even 


85 


a 
ome 


i 
th 
# 


che oe oe abe oe cede che cb ce af oe eee oe be ce 


of oh Re Co ere me 


PORTRAIA ES OF PRR EA 


sickness itself could strike down the Herculean jovial- 
ity which was, in my opinion, one of the most striking 
characteristics of Balzac. He laughed as he smashed 
hydras, he was happy as he tore lions asunder, and 
carried as if it were a hare the boar of Erymanthus 
on his mighty, muscular shoulders. At the least 
provocation his gaiety broke out and made his great 
breast heave. Sometimes, indeed, it would shock a 
refined person, but however much one might endeavour 
to remain serious, it had perforce to be shared. And 
yet you are not to suppose that Balzac sought to 
amuse the gallery; he merely yielded to a sort of 
internal intoxication, and painted with rapid strokes, 
with intense comicality and incomparable talent for 
buffoonery, the strange phantasmagoria which whirled 
around in the camera obscura of his brain. I cannot 
better compare the impressions produced by innumer- 
able conversations of his than to those one experiences 
on looking over the strange drawings of the “ Songes 
drdlatiques” by Master Alcofribas Nasier, which rep- 
resent monstrous creatures made up of the most 
dissimilar elements. Some have by way of a head 
a pair of bellows, the air-hole of which represents the 


eye; others have the stem of an alembic for a nose; 


86 


bob bbb bbb heheh 


ere aye oFe wFe Ce oe wie 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


others again walk upon castors instead of feet; others 
are round like the paunch of a stewpan and have a 
cover for a head; but intense life fills these imagi- 
nary beings, and in their grimacing faces one recog- 
nises the vices, follies, and passions of men. - Some, 
although absurd, almost stop you dead, as would por- 
traits; you could put a name to them. 

When you listened to Balzac, a whole carnival of 
extravagant and real fantocc: pranced before your eyes, 
wearing on their shoulders a variegated sentence, 
waving long sleeves of epithets, noisily blowing their 
noses with an adverb, slapping around with a bat of 
antitheses, pulling you by the skirt of your coat and 
telling your secrets in your ear in a nasal, disguised 
voice, pirouetting and whirling in the midst of a 
sparkle of lights and spangles. It was bewildering, 
and very soon you felt, like Wagner after the speech 
of Mephistopheles, a mill-stone whirling in your 
brain. 

He was not always in such very high spirits, and 
then one of his favourite amusements was to imitate 
the German jargon of Nucingen or Schmuke, or else 
to talk rama like the clients of the boarding-house of 


Madame Vauquer (née Conflans). At the time when 


87 


gobbbbbbbbbtst che abe che obs obs che abe ofp chr ols 


PORDRAGIS af THEM pa 


he wrote “ Un Debut dans la vie,’ on a sketch by 
Madame de Surville, he was hunting for transposed 
proverbs, to be spoken by Mistigris, the painter’s 
apprentice, to whom later, thinking him witty, he 
assigned a fine position in the ‘*‘ Comedie humaine,” 
under the name of the landscape painter Léon de Lora. 
Here are some of the proverbs: ‘ Profit is not without 
honour,’ “A bird in the hand gathers no moss,” 
‘“¢ Accessions will happen in the best regulated families,” 
“One touch of nature makes the whole world blush,” 
“ Flirtation is the thief of time,’ ‘ Poets are born 
not maids,” etc. “Io come upon a good one put him 
in the best of tempers, and he would skip with the 
grace of an elephant about the furniture all round the 
drawing room. On her part, Madame de Girardin 
was hunting for witticisms for the famous “ Lady 
with the Seven little Chairs”? of the Courrier de 
Paris. My help was sometimes required in this 
matter, and if a stranger had entered and had seen 
the beautiful Delphine drawing her white fingers 
through her golden curls with an air of deep reverie; 
Balzac sunk in a great upholstered armchair in which 
M. de Girardin usually slept, his closed fists rammed 


into his trousers pockets, his waistcoat rolled up above 


88 


ce 
ere oe efe CF! wFfe oT cre 


LON O RED EP BATIZIAC 


his stomach, swinging one leg monotonously and 
rhythmically, and testifying by the contracted muscles 
of his face to extraordinary mental effort; me crouched 
between two cushions on the divan like an opium 
eater in an ecstasy, —the stranger could certainly 
never have suspected what we were meditating upon 
so deeply. He would have taken it for granted that 
Balzac was thinking of a new Mme. Firmiani, Madame 
de Girardin of a new part for Mademoiselle Rachel, 
and I of some sonnet. And he would have been very 
far astray. As for puns, Balzac, though his great 
ambition was to make them, had, after conscientious 
efforts, to acknowledge his notorious incapacity in 
this respect, and to keep to the travestied proverbs 
which preceded the approximate puns which the 
common-sense school made fashionable. What de- 
lightful evenings that will never return! We were 
far then from foreseeing that the tall, splendid woman, 
formed like an antique statue, that the robust, quick 
man who united in himself the vigour of the boar 
and the bull, half Hercules, half satyr, built to outlast 
a century, would so soon go to sleep the last sleep, 
the one at Montmartre, the other at Pére-Lachaise, 


and that of the three I should remain alone to preserve 


bLeteteeedcetteettttettetts 
PORTRAGT S° OF (RH Eaaaaeae 


those remembrances already distant and so near being 
forgotten. 

Like his father, who died by accident when he was 
more than eighty years old, Balzac believed himself 
destined to live long. He often talked over his proj- 
ects for the future with me. He was going to finish 
the “* Comédie humaine,” to write the “ Theory of the 


> DB ] 


Gait,’ a “ Monograph on Virtue,” some fifty dramas, 
gain more wealth, marry and have two children, — 
“but not more; two children look well,” he would 
say, ‘on the back seat of a carriage.” All this 
would necessarily take up time, and I pointed out 
that when he had finished these jobs he would be 
about eighty. ‘Eighty !” he cried, “that is the very 
flower of age.” 

One day when we were dining together at M. Emile 
de Girardin’s, he told us an anecdote about his father, 
by way of showing how vigorous was the stock from 
which he sprang. M. de Balzac senior, who had been 
put into an attorney’s office, took his meals, according 
to the custom of the day, at the master’s table with the 
other clerks. Partridges were served. ‘The attorney’s 
wife, who was watching the new-comer out of the 


corner of her eye, said to him, ‘“ M. Balzac, can you 


go 


chee obec ob oh hh hh deccheclelete cb clehah ob check 


GO VED WTS OFS GTO VFS VO 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


carve?” ‘ Yes, Madam,” replied the young fellow, 
blushing up to his ears, and he bravely seized the carv- 
ing knife and fork. Being totally ignorant of culinary 
anatomy, he divided the partridge into four portions, 
but so vigorously that he split the dish, cut the cloth, . 
and drove the edge of the knife into the table. It was 
not clever, but it exhibited his strength. The attor- 
ney’s wife smiled, and from that day out Balzac, the 
young clerk, was treated very sweetly in that house. 

The story, as I tell it, seems cold, but it should be 
told with Balzac’s pantomime as he imitated upon his 
own plate the paternal exploit, with the air of terror 
and resolve which he assumed, the fashion with which 
he seized his knife after having turned up his sleeves, 
and with which he drove his fork into an imaginary 
partridge, — Neptune driving away marine monsters 
never handled his trident with a more vigorous fist. 
And how terribly he bore down upon it! His cheeks 
grew purple, his eyes jutted from his head. And when 
the operation was over, what a glance of righteous 
satisfaction trying to conceal itself under modesty, he 
would cast upon the guests ! 

The truth is, Balzac had in him the making of a 


great actor. He had a full, sonorous voice, of rich 


gi 


coh soe oe he che oe oe te ce cdeck cece cde fede eee oe oc 


5h Blah —Aaallaa —5 Eiedh —Srallinnt — Saal — Salil — Soudan — Soule — Soret — Snell — Social — retin whe ave ateees 


POR TAR AED StO BR) Eee 


and powerful timbre, which he could moderate and 
make very soft at need, and he read admirably well, 
—a talent which most actors lack. Whatever he told, 
he acted it with intonations, grimaces, and gestures 
which in my opinion no comedian ever surpassed. 

I find in * Marguerite”? by Madame de Girardin, 
this souvenir of. Balzac. It is one of the characters 


in the book who speaks : — 


«© He said that Balzac had dined with him the night before, 
and had been more brilliant and more sparkling than ever. 
He delighted us with the. story of his trip to Austria. What 
fire! what dash! what power of imitation! He was mar- 
vellous. His fashion of paying the’ postilions is an invention 
which a novelist of genius alone could come upon. ‘I was 
greatly bothered at every relay,’ he said. «How could I pay ? 
I did not know a word of German, I did not know the cur- 
rency of the country, — it was very difficult. ‘This is what 
IT imagined. I had a bag filled with small silver coins, kreut- 
zers, etc. On reaching a relay the postilion came to the 
carriage window. I looked him straight in the eye and I put 
into his hand one kreutzer, two kreutzers, then three, then 
four, and so on until I caught him smiling. The moment he 
smiled, I knew that I had given him one kreutzer too much, 


so I promptly took back one, and my man was paid.’ ”’ 
At the Jardies he read to me ‘ Mercadet,” the 


original “ Mercadet,” far fuller, more complex and 


g2 


ae che obs abe che abe able abe alls abe che abel che cls obo ols cbs obs cbr abe be cbr ols 
HONOR EI DE? BALZAC 


varied than the play when skilfully and tactfully arranged 
for the Gymnase by d’Ennery. Balzac, who, like 
Tieck, read on without indicating acts, scenes, or 
names, made use of a different and perfectly recog- 
nisable voice for each personage. ‘The organs with 
which he endowed the different sorts of creditors were 
of the most startling comicality. Some were hoarse, 
some were honeyed, some spoke fast, some slowly, 
some threateningly, some plaintively. “The crowd of 
them yelped, miauled, growled, grumbled, howled in 
every possible and impossible tone. First, Debt sang 
a solo, which soon an innumerable chorus took up. 
Creditors came out from everywhere: from behind the 
stove, from below the bed, from the drawers of the 
bureau; they poured from the chimney, they filtered 
in through the keyhole; others climbed in by the 
window like lovers; some sprang from the bottom of 
a trunk like Jacks-in-the-box, others came through the 
walls as out of an English trap; and they became a 
crowd, a roaring multitude, an invasion, a regular flood- 
tide. In vain Mercadet shook them off; others took 
their places, and as far as one could see there was to 
be made out a dark host of creditors on the march, 


arriving like huge termites to devour their prey. I do 


93 


bbbbbbhbh bbb bbb bbb bat 
PORT RATA S*( OFT A Ea 


not know if the play was better in that form, but never 
did any performance produce such an effect upon me. 

Balzac, while he was reading ‘“‘ Mercadet,” was half 
lying on the long divan in the Jardies drawing-room, 
for he had sprained his ankle, having slipped, like his 
walls, upon the clay soil of his property. A little hair, 
coming through the stuff, stuck him in the leg and 
annoyed him. ‘The chintz is too thin,” he said, 
“the hay comes through. You will have to put 
thicker stuff underneath,” he added as he pulled at the 
annoying hair. 

Francois, the Caleb of our Ravenswood, would not 
suffer the splendours of the manor to be laughed at. 
He corrected his master and said “hair.” ‘Then 
that scoundrel of an upholsterer has swindled me,” 
replied Balzac. ‘ They are all alike, —I had ordered 
the thing stuffed with hay. Damn the man!” 

The splendours of the Jardies were mostly imag- 
inary. All Balzac’s friends can remember having seen 
written in charcoal upon the walls, bare or covered 
with gray paper, ‘¢ Rosewood wainscoting, — tapestry 
from the Gobelins, — Venetian mirror, — painting by 
Raphael.” Gérard de Nerval had already decorated an 


apartment in this fashion, and so we were not sur- 


94 


de oh be oh oe le he oe oe ae etree ooo cece eos be aha 


WTO CTS VTE ee oe UTE ete 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


prised at it. As for Balzac, he literally believed him- 
self to be dwelling amid gold, marble, and silks. But if 
he never finished the Jardies, and if his chimeras made 
people laugh, at least he built himself an eternal dwell- 
ing, a monument more durable than brass, a vast city 
peopled with his creations and gilded by the beams of 
his glory. 
V 

By a peculiarity of temperament which he shared in 
common with several of the most poetic writers of our 
age, such as Chateaubriand, Madame de Staél, George 
Sand, Mérimée, Janin, Balzac possessed neither the 
gift nor the love of verse, however great the efforts he 
made to attain to it. On this point his excellent judg- 
ment, so deep and so sagacious, was at fault; he 
admired somewhat at haphazard, and, so to speak, as 
public notoriety led him to do. I do not think, 
although he professed great respect for Victor Hugo, 
that he ever felt very much the lyrical qualities of the 
poet, whose prose, at once sculptural and coloured, 
amazed him. He, so laborious, nevertheless, and who 
turned a phrase over as many times as rimesters may 
put back an Alexandrine on the anvil, thought that to 


labour at metre was puerile, fastidious, and useless. He 


95 


Lebbbbbrbbbbtdbbbbbbd ddh 
PORTRAT@S) OF T Hat siteae 


would have willingly recompensed with a bushel of 
peas those who succeeded in making an idea pass 
through the narrow ring of rhythm, as Alexander 
rewarded the Greek who was skilled in throwing from 
a distance bullets through a ring. Verse, with its 
fixed, clean form, its elliptical speech unfitted for mul- 
tiple detail, seemed to him an obstacle invented pur- 
posely, a superfluous difficulty, a mnemonic method - 
adapted to the use of primitive days. In this respect 
he believed very much as did Stendhal: “ Can the fact 
that a work was written while the author was hopping 
on one foot, add to the pleasure the work gives ? ” 
The Romanticist school contained within itself a 
few adepts, partisans of absolute truth, who rejected 
verse as unnatural. If Talma said, “T do not want 
fine verses,” Beyle said, ‘I do not want verse at all.” 
‘That was at bottom Balzac’s feeling, although in order 
to appear broad-minded, comprehensive, and universal, 
he sometimes pretended in society to admire poetry, 
just as ordinary people affect to care enthusiastically 
for music which bores them enormously. He was 
always surprised at seeing me write verse, and delight 
in doing it. “That is not copy,’ he would say, and 


any esteem which he felt for me I owed to my prose. 


96 


ektbbetbteetttettttttt ttt 
HO WN GR BaD) Ey BIA LS ZAC 


All the writers, then young, who formed part of the 
literary movement represented by Hugo, used, like the 
master, the lyre or the pen. Alfred de Vigny, Sainte- 
Beuve, Alfred de Musset, spoke indifferently the tongue 
of gods and the tongue of men; I also—if I may 
name myself after such glorious names, — possessed 
that double faculty from the start. It is always easy 
‘for poets to descend to prose; the bird may walk when 
it chooses, but the lion cannot fly. Born prose writers 
never rise to poetry, however poetical they may be 
otherwise; the gift of rhythmic speech is a peculiar 
one, and a man may possess it without being neces- 
sarily a great genius, while it is often refused to su- 
perior minds. Among the proudest of those who 
apparently disdain it, more than one is unconsciously 
annoyed at not possessing it. 

Among the two or three thousand personages of the 
“ Comédie humaine” there are two poets, Canalis 
in ** Modeste Mignon,” and Lucien de Rubempré in 
_  Splendeurs et Miséres des courtisanes.’’ Balzac has 
represented both in no very favourable way. Canalis 
is cold, sterile, small, narrow-minded ; he is a clever 
arranger of words, a maker of imitation jewels, who 


sets paste in silver-gilt and makes necklaces of imita- 


7 97 


beteeteereeeretetettttetes 


PORTRAITS: OF THES 
tion pearls. His volumes, with numerous leads, broad 
margins, and wide intervals, contain nothing but melo- 
dious nothingness, monotonous music fit only to make 
schoolgirls sleep or dream. Balzac, who usually es- 
pouses warmly the interests of his characters, seems to 
take a secret pleasure in turning Canalis into ridicule 
and placing him in embarrassing positions. He riddles 
his vanity with infinite irony and sarcasm, and winds 
up by taking from him Modeste Mignon and her great 
wealth, to give her to Ernest de la Briére. This end- 
ing, which is contrary to the commencement of the 
story, sparkles with veiled malice and sly mockery. 
Balzac seems to be personally delighted with the clever 
trick which he has played on Canalis. He thus takes 
his revenge for the angels, the sylphs, the lakes, the 
swans, the willows, the skiffs, the stars, and the lyres 
which the poet has made such abundant use of. 

If in Canalis we have the sham poet who saves up 
his slight inspiration and dams it up in order that it 
may flow, foam, and sound for a few moments so as to 
simulate a cascade ; the clever man who makes all his 
literary successes, laboriously prepared, serve his polit- 
ical ambition ; the positive man, who is fond of money, 


degrees, pensions, and honours, in spite of his elegiac 


98 


che ce os obs ole abe abl obs che abe ob obras obs obs ob obs ob ole obs ol ole oboe 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


attitudes and his posing as an angel who regrets 
heaven; on the other hand Lucien de Rubempré 
exhibits to us the idle, frivolous, careless, fantastic, 
womanishly nervous poet, who is incapable of persist- 
ent effort, who has no moral strength, who lives main- 
tained by actresses and courtesans, a marionette the 
strings of which are pulled at pleasure by the terrible 
Vautrin, who hides himself under the pseudonym of 
Carlos Herrera. It is true that in spite of his vices 
Lucien is seductive; Balzac has bestowed wit, beauty, 
youth, and elegance upon him. Women adore him, 
but he ends by hanging himself in prison. Balzac did 
all he could to bring to a successful issue the marriage 
of Clotilde de Grandlieu with the author of the ‘“* Mar- 
guerites,” but unfortunately the exigencies of morality 
were in the way ; and what would the Faubourg Saint- 
Germain have said of the “ Comédie humaine ” if the 
pupil of Jacques Collin the convict had married a 
duke’s daughter. Since we are speaking of the author 
of the ‘“ Marguerites,”’ let me note here a bit of infor- 
mation which may interest bibliophiles. The few 
sonnets which Lucien de Rubempre shows as a sample 
of his volume of verse to the publisher Dauriat are not 


by Balzac, for he wrote no verse and asked his friends 


99 


LREECKAEE SLES tsetse test 
PO RY RAMS S)°O.F! SE 


for any which he happened to need. The sonnet on 
the Marguerite is by Madame de Girardin, the son- 
net on the Camellia by Lassailly, and that on the 
Tulip by myself. ‘ Modeste Mignon ”’ also contains 
some verses, but I do not know who wrote them. 

As I said when speaking of “ Mercadet,” Balzac 
read admirably, and he was good enough one day to 
read to me some of my own verses. He recited 
among others “ La Fontaine du Cimetiere.” Like all 
prose writers, he read for the sake of the sense only, 
and tried to conceal the rhythm which poets, when 
they recite their verses aloud, accentuate, on the con- 
trary, in a fashion unbearable to every one else, but 
which delights them. We had on this point a long 
discussion, which merely ended, as is always the case, in 
each of us being more set in his own private opinion. 

The great literary man of the “‘ Comédie humaine” 
is Daniel d’Arthez, a serious writer, hard-working, 
long buried, before he makes his reputation, in deep 
studies of philosophy, history, and linguistics. Balzac 
dreaded facility, and he did not believe that a work 
rapidly written could be good. For this reason he en- 
tertained singular repugnance towards newspaper writ- 


ing, and he considered time and talent given up to it 


I0o 


as wasted; nor did he fancy newspaper writers much 
more, and although himself so great a critic, he despised 
criticism. ‘The very unflattering portraits which he 
has drawn of Etienne Lousteau, Nathan, Vernisset, 
Androche Finot, fairly represent his real opinion of 
the press. Emile Blondet, introduced into that bad 
company to represent the good writer, is recompensed 
for his articles for the imaginary ‘“‘ Débats” of the 
**Comédie humaine” by a rich marriage with a gen- 
eral’s widow, and is thus enabled to give up newspaper 
work, 

Balzac, besides, never bestowed a thought on the 
newspaper when working. He took his novels to mag- 
azines and to daily papers just as they were written, 
without preparing any breaks or skilfully suspended 
sentences at the end of each instalment so that readers 
should desire to know the continuation. He cut up 
his material into slices of about the same length, and 
sometimes a description of an arm-chair, begun in one 
issue, was not finished until the next day. He rightly 
refused to divide his work into little tableaux like those 
of a drama or a vaudeville ; he thought merely of the 
finished book. That fashion of working often pre- 


vented the immediate success which newspaperdom 


Io! 


che ce obs ols obs che abe che che abe be checks cho che abe che che che che che ofl chook: 


P.O. R/TaRJAS a S14 OF STE Bes 


requires of the authors it employs. Eugéne Sue and 
Alexandre Dumas were more frequently victorious than 
Balzac in those daily battles which then delighted the 
newspapers. He did not win any of that immense pop- 
ularity which rewarded the “‘ Mysteries of Paris ” and 
“The Wandering Jew,’ “The Three Musketeers,”’ 


> 


and “ Monte Cristo.’”’ ‘Les Paysans,” a masterpiece, 
even caused a great number of subscribers to the 
“¢ Presse,” in which the first part appeared, to give up 
the paper; the publication of the work had to be 
stopped. Every day came letters asking that the 
novel be brought to a _ conclusion, — Balzac was 
thought wearisome. The great idea of the author 
of the “ Comédie humaine”’ had not yet been grasped. 
It was to take modern society, and to write about Paris 
and our days that book which unfortunately no civilisa- 
tion of antiquity has left to us. [he complete edition 
of the “ Comédie humaine,” by collecting the scattered 
works, brought out the philosophical purpose of the 
writer; from that moment Balzac grew considerably 
in public opinion, and at last it ceased to consider him 
as “the most fertile of our romancers,’’ — a stereo- 
typed phrase which irritated him as much as being 
called ‘“‘ the author of ‘ Eugénie Grandet.’ ” 


LOZ 


the obs ols abs oll abl alls che obs obs able alr ae fe be oe ae os oe oro alls obs of 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


Many a criticism has been written on Balzac, he 
-has been talked over in many a way, but this point — 
the absolute modernness of his genius, in my opinion 
the most characteristic, — has not been dwelt upon. 
Balzac owes nothing whatever to antiquity; the 
Greeks and Romans do not exist for him; he does 
not need, therefore, to call for freedom from them. 
In the make-up of his talent there is no trace of 
Homer, of Virgil, of Horace, not even of the “ Viris 
Illustribus,’”? — no one was ever less classical. 

Balzac, like Gavarni, saw his contemporaries; but 
in art the highest difficulty is to paint what one be- 
holds. It is quite possible to go through one’s times 
without beholding them, and that is what many great 
minds have done. Nothing seems simpler, and yet 
nothing is harder than to be of one’s own time; to 
wear neither green nor blue glasses, to think with one’s 
brain, to make use of the speech of the day and not to 
reproduce in centons the phrases of one’s predecessors. 
Now Balzac possessed that very rare merit. ‘The ages 
have a perspective of their own and a distance of their 
own; then the great masses stand out, the lines be- 
come clear, the troublesome details vanish; by the 


help of classical remembrances and of the harmonious 


103 


LLLELALE AE ehh bbb bbb 
PORTRAIT S' OFY THe pA 


names of antiquity, the meanest of rhetoricians can 
turn out a tragedy, a poem, a historical study. But to 
find yourself in the crowd, elbowed by it, and yet to 
catch its aspect, to follow its currents, to distinguish 
personalities, to draw the faces of so many different 
beings, to exhibit the secret motives of their actions, 
— that requires a very special genius, and the author of 
the “Comedie humaine ” possessed that genius to a 
degree which no one has equalled before, and probably 
no one ever will equal. 

This deep understanding of modern things made 
Balzac, I must say, rather insensible to plastic beauty ; 
he read with careless eye the marmorean strophes in 
which Greek art sang the perfection of the human form, 
in the Greek Museum he looked at the Venus of Milo 
without any great pleasure; but the fair Parisian who 
stopped in front of the immortal statue, wrapped in her 
long cashmere shawl which fell without a fold from 
the neck to the bottom of the skirt, wearing a bon- 
net with a Chantilly veil, gloved with neat Jouvin 
gloves, showing from under the hem of her flounced 
dress the varnished tip of her shoe, made his eye 
sparkle with delight. He analysed her coquettish 
ways, he enjoyed to the full her skilled graces, think- 


104 


I ra 


tebtbebbbttbbbbtbdbdbchch dab ch ch heh 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


ing, as she did, that the goddess was rather thick- 
waisted and would not show to advantage in the draw- 
ing-rooms of Mesdames de Beauséant, de Listomere, 
or d’Espard. Ideal beauty, with its serene, clean lines, 
was too simple, cold, and plain for this complex, rich, 
diversified genius. He says somewhere, “A man 
must be a Raphael to paint many Virgins.” Charac- 
ter pleased him more than style, and he preferred 
physiognomy to beauty. In his portraits of women he 
never idealised, but put a sign, a wrinkle, a fold, a spot 
of rose, a softened, tired corner, -a vein too apparent, 
or some detail which indicated the wear and tear of 
life, and which a poet, painting the same face, would 
have unquestionably effaced, though no doubt he would 
have been wrong to do so. 

I have not the least intention of criticising Balzac 
on this point, for that defect is his chief quality. He 
accepted no mythologies or traditions, and, happily for 
us, was unacquainted with that ideal form of the verse 
of poets, of the marbles of Greece and Rome, and of 
the paintings of the Renaissance, which interposes be- 
tween the eye of the artist and reality. He loved the 
woman of our day such as she is, and not a pale statue. 


He loved her for her virtues, her vices, her fancies, 


105 


coe oe ole oe oe eae ob a de cdecde deck che cbecde ob obec 
POR TRAMED S! © FT Bee 


and her shawls, her dresses and bonnets, and followed 
her through life far beyond that point on the road 
where love abandons her; he prolonged her youth by 
several years; he gave her new springtimes and Indian 
summers; he gilded her sunsets with most splendid 
beams. We are so classical in France that even after 
two thousand years people have not perceived that 
roses in our climate do not bloom in April, as in the 
descriptions of the poets of antiquity, but in June, and 
that our women begin to be beautiful at the age when 
those of Greece, more precocious, ceased to be so. 
How many a charming type he has imagined or re- 
produced; Madame Firmiani, the Duchess de Mau- 
frigneuse, the Princess de Cadignan, Madame de 
Mortsauf, Lady Dudley, the Duchess de Langeais, 
Madame Jules, Modeste Mignon, Diane de Chaulieu, 
to say nothing of the middle-class women, the grisettes 
and the ladies of his demi-monde. 

And how well he loved our modern Paris, the 
beauty of which the amateurs of local colour and pic- 
turesqueness in his day appreciated so little! He tray- 
ersed it in every direction by night and by day; there 
was not a blind lane, not a smelly passageway, not a 


narrow, muddy, black street which did not become 


106 


ofr abe of jo elle obs abe abe abe abe abs clleche oe ole oe obs ohn ofe obo che ofp abe obs 


We OO OFS OFS OTE OFS OTe OF OTe OTe OFS GO UFO CVO CFO CTO Oe 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


under his pen an etching worthy of Rembrandt, full of 
shadows, swarming with mystery in which shows 
faintly the trembling dot of light. Wealth and wretch- 
edness, pleasure and suffering, shame and glory, beauty 
and ugliness, — he knew every bit of his beloved town. 
Paris was to him an enormous, hybrid, formidable 
monster, a polypus with a hundred thousand tentacles, 
which he listened to and watched live, and which 
formed in his eyes one vast individuality. On _ this 
point the reader should peruse the marvellous pages at 


> 


the beginning of “La Fille aux yeux d’or,” in which 
Balzac, trespassing upon the musician’s art, has sought, 
as if he were writing a symphony for a great orches- 
tra, to bring out the sound of all the voices, all the 
sobs, all the cries, all the rumours, all the groans of 
Paris at work. 

It was from this modernism, on which I dwell pur- 
posely, that arose, without his suspecting it, the difficulty 
of labour which Balzac felt in the accomplishment of 
his work. The French language, as wrought out by 
the Classics of the seventeenth century, is fitted, if it is 
desired to conform to it, to express general ideas only, 
and to paint conventional figures amid vague surround- 


ings. Io express the innumerable details of charac- 


107 


bebebbbbreetettettttedcdtet 
PORTRAIT 5; OF To Ea 


ters, forms, architecture, styles of furniture, Balzac 
was obliged to make for himself a special tongue com- 
posed of technical terms, of the slang of science, of 
the studio, of the theatre, of the circus itself. Every 
word which had a meaning was welcomed, and the 
sentence, in order to receive it, opened an insert, a 
parenthesis, and complacently lengthened itself out. 
That is what made superficial critics say that Balzac 
was no writer. He possessed, although he did not 
think so, a style, and a very beautiful style, the neces- 


sary, inevitable, mathematical style of his ideas. 


VI 


No one can pretend to write a complete biography of 
Balzac. Any close intimacy with him was necessarily 
broken into by lapses, absences, and disappearances. 
Work absolutely ordered Balzac’s life, and if—as he 
says himself with an accent of touching feeling, in a 
letter to his sister —he unhesitatingly sacrificed to 
that jealous god the joys and distractions of life, it 
cost him somewhat to give up every intercourse which 
had brought some friendship. To reply in a few 
words to a long letter became for him, in the course 


of his overwhelming labours, a piece of prodigality 


108 


LEELEELAA PSSA eeeteetetes 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


which he could rarely indulge in. He was the slave 
of his work, and a willing slave. He had, with a very 
kind, tender heart, the egotism of a great worker. 
And who could have possibly thought of being an- 
noyed at his forced negligence and his apparent forget- 
fulness, on beholding the results of his flights and his 
seclusions? When, having thoroughly finished his 
work, he reappeared, you would have sworn that he 
had left you but the night before, and he resumed the 
interrupted conversation just as though six months and 
sometimes more had not passed by. He made trips 
through France to study the localities in which he placed 
his “Scénes de la Vie de Province,”’ and withdrew to 
the house ofa friend in Touraine or Charente, finding 
there the peace which his creditors did not always 
allow him to enjoy in Paris. After some great work 
he occasionally allowed himself a somewhat longer trip 
into Germany, Upper Italy, or Switzerland, but these 
rapid excursions, troubled by the recollection of notes 
falling due and contracts to be kept or of insufficient 
means, fatigued him perhaps rather more than they 
rested him. His vast glance took in the heavens, the 
horizons, mountains, landscapes, monuments, houses, 


and interiors, and intrusted them to that comprehensive 


109 


che ke ob oe be he ta che abe abe eo check oboe feof ce cafe obese 
PORT RAWTS: 'O FE) TH EVpwas 


and mighty memory which never failed him. Greater 
in this respect than descriptive poets, Balzac saw man 
at the same time as nature; he studied faces, manners, 
passions, characters with the same glance that he studied 
cities, costumes, and furniture. Just as the smallest 
fragment of bone was sufficient for Cuvier, so a detail 
sufficed him to imagine and to reconstitute accurately 
an individual whom he had caught sight of as he 
passed. Balzac’s talent for observation has been often 
and rightly praised, but great as it was, it is not to be 
supposed that the author of the “ Comédie humaine” 
always drew his portraits, so strictly true, from nature. 
His method in no wise resembled that of Henri 
Monnier, who followed in real life some individual 
in order to sketch him with pen and pencil, taking 
down his least gestures, noting his most insignificant . 
remarks so as to obtain at one and the same time a 
photograph and a page of shorthand notes. Balzac, 
absorbed most of the time in his work, could not 
materially observe the two thousand characters which 
play their part in his comedy in one hundred acts; but 
every man, when he possesses the inner sight, contains 
humanity, and becomes a microcosm in which nothing 


is lacking. He has—not always, but often — ob- 


IIo 


TTT TTT 
HION © REWD Be BAC AIAC 


served within himself the numerous types which live 
in his work. That is why they are complex,—no 
one can absolutely live another man’s life; in such 
a case there are motives which remain obscure, un- 
known details, actions of which one loses track. 
Even in the most faithful portraits there must be some 
creation. So Balzac created much more than he saw, 
yet his remarkable faculties as an anatomist and a 
physiologist have merely served the poet in him, just 
as the assistant serves the professor to whom he hands 
the materials needed for a demonstration. 

Perhaps this is the place to define truth as under- 
stood by Balzac. In these days of realism, it is well 
to be explicit on this point. ‘Truth in art is not truth 
in nature; everything represented by means of art 
necessarily contains some small amount of conven- 
tionality. You may reduce it as much as you like, it 
still exists, even if it be merely perspective in painting, 
and’ language in literature. Balzac brings out, en- 
larges, heightens, cuts away, adds, shades, lights up, 
throws into the distance or draws near men and things 
according to the effect he seeks to produce; he is 
truthful no doubt, but with the additions and the sacri- 
fices called for by art. He prepares rich, dark back- 


IIl 


the och oe oe oe de de be abe cdeade och ce ooo ofc ober 


ore ee eTe ete ere wre we 


PORTRATOS: OF UT Hh Bae 


grounds for his luminous figures; he sets his sombre 
figures against light backgrounds. Like Rembrandt 
he skilfully places: as required the high light on the 
brow or the nose of the character. Sometimes he 
obtains fantastic and eccentric results in his descrip- 
tions by placing, without saying a word, a microscope 
under the reader’s eyes; then the details appear with 
unnatural sharpness, with exaggerated minuteness, with 
incomprehensible and formidable enlargements; the 
tissues, the bracts, the pores, the villi, the grain, the 
fibres, the capillary ducts, assume an enormous impor- 
tance, and turn a face insignificant to the naked eye 
into a sort of chimerical mask as amazing as those 
sculptured under the cornices of the Pont Neuf and 
vermiculated by time. Characters also are carried to 
extremes, as is proper in types. If Baron Hulot is 
a libertine, he is also the incarnation of lust; he is 
both a man and a vice, both a personality and an 
abstraction. He unites in himself all the scattered 
features of such a character. A writer of less genius 
would have drawn a portrait; Balzac has created a 
type. Men do not have as many muscles as Michael 
Angelo gives them in order to suggest the idea of 


strength. Balzac too is full of this useful exaggera- 


112 


ded deo oe oe de oe de oe cdede doe oe ode oe ooo oe shock 
EPORNIO OR Ea) Te BIA THAT ARG 


tion, of those heavy strokes which bring out and sup- 
port the outline. He imagines, as he copies, like a 
master, and he impresses his own touch on everything. 

As this is not a literary criticism but a biographical 
study I am writing, I shall not carry these remarks 
farther. It is sufficient to make the suggestion. 
Balzac, whom the Realistic school seems to desire to 
claim as its leader, has no connection with its 
tendencies. 

Unlike certain great literary men who feed on their 
own genius alone, Balzac wrote a great deal and with 
prodigious rapidity. He was fond of books and had 
brought together a fine library, which he intended to 
leave to his native city, a purpose which the indif- 
ference of his townsmen towards him caused him 
to abandon later. He absorbed in a few days the 
voluminous works of Swedenborg, which his mother 
owned, — she was at that time rather preoccupied with 
mysticism. ‘l’hat piece of reading gave us “Séraphita- 
Séraphitus,’ one of the most amazing products of 
modern literature. Never did Balzac approach nearer 
ideal beauty than he did in that book. The climb up 
the mountain is so ethereal, supernatural, and luminous 


that it fairly lifts you away from earth. There are two 


8 113 


tetebetbtettetettttttetes 
PORT RATES) © Fy ae 


colours only employed, — azure blue and snow white, 
with a few pearly tones for shadows. I know nothing 
more exquisite than the opening. ‘The description of 
Norway with its fiords seen from above is dazzling and 
turns one’s head. 

“Louis Lambert ” also shows traces of the reading 
of Swedenborg; but soon Balzac, who had borrowed 
the eagle pinions of the mystics to soar in the infinite, 
returned to the earth we inhabit, although his robust 
lungs could have breathed for any length of time that 
subtile air deadly to the weak ; he abandoned the world 
beyond after that flight and returned to real life. Per- 
haps his splendid genius would have vanished too soon, 
had he continued to rise within the boundless heights of 
mysticism, and we ought to count ourselves happy that 
he was satisfied with “ Louis Lambert ”’ and *“ Séra- 
phita-Séraphitus,” which sufficiently represent in the 


93 


““Comédie humaine ” the supernatural side, and which 
open a wide enough door into the invisible world. 

Let me now pass to more intimate details. The 
great Goethe had a horror of three things, — one of them 
was tobaccosmoke. Like the Jupiter of the German 
poetic Olympus, Balzac could not bear tobacco under 


any form whatever; he anathematised pipes and pro- 


I14 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


scribed cigars; he did not tolerate even the smallest 
Spanish cigarette. The Asiatic hookah alone found 
favour in his eyes, and even that he tolerated merely 
as a curious trifle and on account of its local colour. 
In his philippics against Nicot’s weed he did not 
imitate the doctor who, during a dissertation upon 
the evils of snuff, never ceased to take great pinches 
from a big snuffbox placed near him. Balzac never 


99 


smoked ; his “Theory of Stimulants ” contains a reg- 
ular indictment against tobacco, and I have no doubt 
that, had he been a sultan like Amurat, he would 
have caused all obstinate smokers and those who 
had relapsed to be beheaded. His great predilection 
was for coffee, which did him so much harm, and 
perchance killed him, although he was built to live 
a hundred years. 

Was Balzac right or wrong? Is tobacco, as he main- 
tained, a deadly poison, and does it intoxicate those 
whom it does not turn into brutes? Is it the Western 
opium which dulls will and mind? ‘That is a question 
I cannot solve, but I shall name here a few famous 
persons of our day, some of whom smoked and others 
who did not. Goethe and Heine, singularly enough, 


Germans though they were, did not smoke. Byron 


115 


cheba boobs abe abe abe abe abe robes cece ba ebro bee oe ae eo 
PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


smoked; but Hugo does not, any more than Alexandre 
Dumas senior; on the other hand, Alfred de Musset, 
Eugene Sue, George Sand, Mérimée, Paul de Saint- 
Victor, Emile Augier, Ponsard smoked and smoke still, 
and yet they are not quite fools. 

This aversion, besides, was shared by nearly all the 
men born with our century or somewhat earlier. At 
that time only sailors or soldiers smoked; women 
fainted at the smell of a pipe or a cigar. ‘They have 
progressed since then, and more than one pair of rosy 
lips lovingly presses the gold mouthpiece of a puro in a 
boudoir changed into a smoking-room. Dowagers and 
turbaned mothers have alone preserved their old an- 
tipathy, and stoically behold their drawing-rooms 
deserted by refractory youth. 

Every time that Balzac is obliged for the verisimili- 
tude of his story to allow one of his characters to 
indulge in this horrible habit, his concise, disdainful 
sentence exhibits secret blame. ‘As for du Marsay,” 
he says, “he was busy smoking cigars, —” and he 
must have been very fond of that condottiere of dandy- 
ism, to allow him to smoke in his work. 

A delicate-mannered woman, no doubt, inspired 


Balzac with that aversion; that is a point I cannot 


116 


decease ae oh oe deck ede bele ck dele coe ek 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


clear up. What is certain is that the Revenue never 
made a penny by him. 

Talking of women, Balzac, who described them so 
well, must certainly have known them. In one of the 
letters he wrote to his sister, Madame de Surville, when 
he was still young and quite unknown, he states the 
ideal hope of his life in two words, — to be famous and 
beloved. The first part of the programme — which 
every artist has marked out for himself — was most 
fully realised. Was the second fulfilled also? The 
opinion of the most intimate friends of Balzac is that 
his loves were at the most platonic, but Madame de 
Surville smiles at the suggestion, with a smile full 
of feminine finesse and of modest reticence. She 
maintains that her brother was uncommonly discreet, 
and that if he had chosen to speak, he could have told 
many things. No doubt that is true, and Balzac’s 
strong-box must have contained more notes written in 
delicate, sloping handwriting, than the lacquered coffers 
of Canalis. One scents woman in his work, odor 
di femina. When one penetrates into it, one hears, 
behind the doors which close on the steps of the secret 
staircase, the rustle of silk and the creaking of shoes. 


The semicircular, padded drawing-room of the rue des 


117 


BLEELALALLALA SP AAA AS eAetetese 
POR‘DRATS Ss) OFT AE epi 


Batailles, of which I have quoted the description 
inserted by the author in the “ Fille aux yeux d’or,” 
did not remain absolutely virgin, as many of us 
supposed it did. In the whole course of my intimacy 
with him, — which lasted from 1836 to the day of his 
death, —once alone did Balzac allude, in the most 
respectful words, to an attachment of his early youth. 
Even then he told me only the first name of the 
woman, whose remembrance, after so many years, still 
brought tears to his eyes. If he had told me any more, 
I should certainly not violate his confidence. The 
genius of a great writer belongs to the world, but 
his heart is his own. I merely touch, by the way, on 
this tender and delicate side of Balzac’s life, because 
all I have to say about it is to his honour. His re- 
serve and his mystery are characteristic of a well-bred 
man; if he was beloved, as he wished to be in his 
youthful dreams, the world, at least, has never known 
aught of it. 

Do not imagine that on this account Balzac was 
austere and chaste in his speech. ‘The author of the 
“Contes drdlatiques”’ was too well acquainted with 
Rabelais, and too much after the fashion of Pantagruel, 


to avoid jokes; he knew good stories and he invented 


118 


———-___—. 


bgbbbbbtttbbbbbbbbb bbb 
RE BALZAC 


others. His broad jokes, interlarded with gallic crudi- 
ties, would have made horrified cant cry out ‘ Shock- 
ing!” but his laughing, talkative lips were sealed like 
the tomb when a serious feeling was in question. He 
scarcely allowed his best friends to guess at his love 
for a distinguished foreign lady,—a love which may 
be spoken of since it was crowned by marriage. It 
was to that passion, which he had felt for a long time, 
that his distant excursions were due, although until the 
very last day, the object of them remained a mystery 
to his friends. 

Absorbed in his work, Balzac did not think of trying 
the drama until very late. Public opinion in general 
considered him—vwrongly, I think — not well fitted 
for it, on the score of a few more or less risky at- 
tempts of his. “Ihe man who created so many types, 
analysed so many characters, gave life to so many people, 
was bound to succeed on the stage. But as I have 
said, Balzac was not spontaneous, and the proofs of a 
drama cannot be corrected. If he had lived, he would 
unquestionably have found his right line and obtained 
success after writing a dozen plays. The “ Maratre,” 
played at the Theatre Historique, was very nearly 


a masterpiece; “ Mercadet,” slightly arranged by a 


119 


bbb bbb bbb bbb bbb 


ere Fe wre Fe eo FS eTO 


PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


clever adapter, obtained a long posthumous success 
at the Gymnase. 

I am bound to say, however, that what induced him 
to make the attempt was rather the hope of earning a 
large sum which would free him at once from his finan- 
cial embarrassments, than a genuine vocation. Every 
one knows that a play is much more profitable than 
a book. A series of performances from which one 
draws rather large profits soon produces by accumula- 
tion considerable sums; if the work of combination is 
greater, the material labour is less. It takes several 
dramas to fill a volume, and while you are walking or 
resting idly with your slippers on, the footlights are 
lighted, the stage is set, the actors declaim and gesticu- 
late, and you find you have made more money than by 
scribbling away for a week, painfully bowed over your 
desk. Some melodramas have brought in more to their 
authors than ‘“* Notre-Dame de Paris” did to Victor 
Hugo or the “ Parents pauvres” to Balzac. 

It is curious that Balzac, who thought out his novels 
elaborately and corrected them with such obstinate 
minuteness, seemed, when it was a question of writing 
a play, seized with a fever of rapidity. He not only 


did not re-write his plays eight or ten times as he did 


I20 


che choo obo ohe ohe oh oe ot oe de cdecde ooo ob obec eee oe deo 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


his novels, he did not really write them at all. Scarcely 
had he fixed upon his plan than he appointed a day for 
the reading and called upon his friends to work up the 
matter. Orliac, Lassailly, Laurent-Jan, myself, and 
others have often been summoned in the middle of the 
night or at extraordinarily early hours. In such cases 
we had to drop everything, for every moment’s delay 
caused the loss of millions. 

An urgent note from Balzac summoned me one day 
to repair at once to the rue de Richelieu, where he had 
a room in the house of Buisson the tailor. I found 
Balzac robed in his monkish gown and stamping with 
impatience on the blue and white carpet of a dainty 
little attic, the walls of which were hung with Carmel- 
ite chintz with blue ornaments, for in spite of his ap- 
parent neglectfulness, he had the instinct of interior 
arrangements and always prepared a comfortable nest 
for his laborious night-watches ; in none of his lodg- 
ings did one meet with that picturesque disorder so dear 
to the artist. 

“At last, here is Théo!” he exclaimed as he saw 
me. ‘You slow coach, you tardigrade, you sloth! 
Why do you not hurry up? Why do you not make 


haste? You ought to have been here an hour ago. 


I21 


choot obs le abe abe he abe he che cle ecb choco oe obec eee ce oe ee fe 
PORT RIAIT S’ OF THE Rp ara. 


To-morrow I have to read to Horrel a great drama in 
five acts.” 

“Oh! and you want my advice?” I replied, as I 
settled myself in an arm-chair after the fashion of a 
man who makes ready to submit to a long course of 
reading. | 

Balzac divined my thought by my attitude, and he 
said in the quietest possible way, ‘“ The play is not 
yet written.” | 

“The devil!” said I. “Well, you will have to 
put off the reading for six weeks.” 

‘“No; we shall knock up the dramorama together 
in order to get the pay. I have a heavy note to meet 
at such a date.” 

‘< It is impossible to do it before to-morrow, — there 
would not be time to copy it.” 

«“ This is how I have arranged matters: you are to 
write one act, Orliac another, Laurent-Jan the third, 
de Belloy the fourth, and I the fifth ; and I shall read 
at noon as agreed upon. An act in a drama does not 
have more than four or five hundred lines; you can 
write four or five hundred lines of dialogue during a 


day. and a night.” 


‘Tell me the subject, the plan, sketch the char- 


acters in a few words, and 
plied, pretty well upset. 

‘© Ah!” he cried with an air of superb weariness and 
magnificent disdain, “if I have to tell you the subject, 
it will never be done.” 

I had not thought I was indiscreet in putting such a 
question, which struck Balzac as perfectly idle. 

Managing with much difficulty to get some notion 
of the plot, I set to work to dash off a scene, a few 
words alone of which remained in the final work, 
which was not read the next day, as will readily be 
believed. I do not know what the other collaborators 
did, but the only one who seriously set to work was 
Laurent-Jan, to whom the play is dedicated. That play 
was “ Vautrin.” Every one knows that the dynastic 
and pyramidal tuft of hair which Frédérick Lemaitre 
bethought himself of wearing in his disguise as a Mexi- 
can general, drew down upon the play the anger of the 
authorities. ‘¢ Vautrin,” interdicted, was performed but 
once, and poor Balzac was like the milk-maid with her 
jars upset ; the prodigious sums which he had figured as 
the probable profits of his drama melted into ciphers ; 
which did not prevent his refusing in a dignified 


fashion the compensation offered by the ministry. 


123 


ttptbebettttteeete tt ttt dht 
PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


At the beginning of this study I’ have spoken occa- 
sionally of the dandiacal fancies exhibited occasionally 
by Balzac; I spoke of his blue coat with buttons of 
massive gold, his huge cane ornamented with a mass 
of turquoises, his appearances in society and in the in- 
fernal box. This splendour lasted but for a time, and 
Balzac recognised that he was not fitted to play the 
part of Alcibiades or Brummel. He could be met, 
especially in the morning when he hastened to the 
printing office to carry copy and to fetch away proofs, 
in an infinitely less superb dress. “Then he wore a 
green hunting-jacket with brass buttons in the shape 
of foxes’ heads, trousers with straps, checkered gray 
and black, tucked into big shoes, a red kerchief twisted 
rope fashion around his neck, a dismal hat brushed the 
wrong way, with a blue band stained with perspiration, 
— garments which covered rather than clothed “the 
most fertile of our novelists.” But maugre the dis- 
order and poverty of the costume, no one would have 
thought of mistaking for a vulgar stranger the stout 
man with blazing eyes, mobile nostrils, ruddy cheeks, 
illumined by genius, who passed by carried away by his 
dream as in a whirlwind. At sight of him sarcasm 


stopped on the street boy’s lips and the serious man 


124 


sh oboe oe oe ah oe oe che oboe cde cde che che boob bee ebe ce abe roe 


ere ete 


HONOREIDE "BALZAG 


ceased to smile; one guessed that he was a king of 
thought. 

Sometimes, on the contrary, he would be seen walk- 
ing slowly, his nose in the air, his eyes hunting around, 
following first one side of the street, then examining 
the other, gaping, not at the birds, but at the signs. 
He was looking for names to give to his characters. 
He rightly claimed that a name can no more be in- 
vented than a word. According to him, names came 
of themselves, like languages; real names, besides, 
possessed a life, a meaning, a variety, a cabalistic 
power, and it was impossible to consider the choice of 
a name too important. Léon Gozlan has told charm- 
ingly in his ‘‘ Balzac en pantoufles,” how the famous 
Z. Marcas of the “ Revue parisienne”’ was discovered. 
A stove-man’s sign furnished the long sought for name 
of Gubetta to Victor Hugo, who was no less care- 
ful than Balzac in the appellations he gave to his 
characters. 

The hard life of night work had, in spite of his 
strong constitution, left its mark upon Balzac’s face, 
and I find in “ Albert Savarus” a portrait of himself 
drawn by him, which represents him such as he was at 


that time (1842), with some slight modifications. 


125 


btetebbbbebttettbt tt ttt tts 
PORT RABES OF TAtetrs: 


«« A splendid head, the black hair already streaked with 
white, hair like that of Saint Peter or Saint Paul in pictures, 
with thick, shining curls, hair as hard as horsehair; a neck 
round and white like a woman’s ; asplendid brow, divided by 
that deep wrinkle which great projects create, which deep 
meditations imprint on the brow of great men; an olive com- 
plexion flushed with red spots; a square nose, fiery eyes, 
hollow cheeks, with two long wrinkles indicative of suffering ; 
a mouth with a pleasant smile, and a small chin ; two small 
crow’s-feet on the temples; hollow eyes rolling under deep- 
set eyebrows like two globes of fire; but in spite of these 
marks of violent passions, a look of calmness and deep resigna- 
tion; a voice of penetrating sweetness, surprising by its 
facility, — the real orator’s voice, sometimes clean and crafty, 
sometimes insinuating, and thunderous at need, then turning 
to sarcasm and becoming incisive. Mr. Albert Savarus is of 
middle stature, neither stout nor thin. Finally, his hands are 


like the hands of a prelate.’’ 


In this portrait, which is very faithful on the whole, 
Balzac has somewhat idealised himself for the sake of 
the novel, and diminished his weight by a few pounds, 
a license quite permissible to a hero beloved of the 
Duchess of Argaiolo and Madame Philoméne de 
Watteville. “* Albert Savarus,”’ one of the least known 
and least frequently quoted novels of Balzac, contains 


many details, somewhat modified, as to his habits of 


126 


tdecbobh bbb babs dech cb cch eb babe 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


life and work. One might even see in it, were it per- 
missible to lift such veils, confidences of another kind. 
Balzac had left the rue des Batailles for the Jardies; 
he then went to live at Passy. The house which he 
inhabited, situated upon a sharp slope, presented a 
rather curious architectural arrangement: you entered 
it somewhat as wine enters into a bottle, — you had to 
go down three stories to reach the ground floor. The 
entrance door on the street side opened almost in the 
roof, like an attic. I once dined there with Léon Goz- 
lan. It was a strange dinner prepared in accordance 
with the economic recipes invented by Balzac. At my 
express request the famous onion soup, endowed with 
so many hygienic and symbolical virtues, and which 
nearly killed Lassailly, did not form part of it, but the 
wines were wonderful. Every bottle had its history, 
and Balzac told it with unequalled eloquence, spirit, 
and conviction. ‘The claret had thrice gone around the 
world; the Chateau-Neuf du Pape went back to fabu- 
lous days; the rum was drawn from a cask tossed by 
the ocean for more than a century, and which had been 
opened with axes, so thick was the crust formed upon 
it by shells, madrepores, and seaweed. Our palates, 


surprised, irritated by acid flavours, in vain protested 


127 


hb bak bbb chaket 


PORTRAITS OF) THE eae 
against these illustrious origins; Balzac was as serious 
as an augur, and in spite of the proverb we looked at 
him in vain, we could not make him laugh. At des- 
sert appeared pears so ripe, so large, so mellow, so 
juicy, that they would have been fit for a king’s banquet. 
Balzac devoured five or six, the juice running down 
his chin. He believed that this fruit was healthful, 
and he ate it in such quantities as much for hygienic 
reasons as because he was fond of it. He already felt 
the first symptoms of the disease which was to kill 
him. Death, with its lean fingers, was feeling that 
robust body to know where to attack it, and finding it 
weak nowhere, it killed him by plethora and hyper- 
trophy. Balzac’s cheeks were always flushed and 
marked with those red spots which are to careless eyes 
an indication of health; but to the observer the yellow 
hepatitic tones surrounded with their golden halo the 
tired eyelids. The glance, made brighter by that 
warm, brown tone, appeared but more brilliant and 
more sparkling, and lulled anxiety. 

At this moment Balzac was very full of occult 
sciences, of chiromancy, of cartomancy. He had 
been told of a sibyl more amazing even than Made- 


moiselle Lenormant, and he induced me, as well as 


128 


Lobe beeeeeeeteteteeteees 
HONORE DE BALZAC 


Madame de Girardin and Mery, to go and consult her 
with him. The pythoness lived at Auteuil, I have 
forgotten in what street; nor does it matter, for the 
address given us was the wrong one. We came 
plump upon a family of worthy townspeople enjoying 
the country,—the husband, the wife, and an old 
mother, whose looks Balzac, who was certain she 
must be the fortune-teller, maintained were absolutely 
cabalistic. The good lady, not at all flattered at being 
taken for a witch, got angry; the husband took us 
for practical jokers or rascals; the younger woman 
laughed loud and long, and the maid prudently hast- 
ened to lock up the silver. We had to withdraw in 
confusion, but Balzac maintained that that was the 
house, and having climbed back into the carriage, 
muttered insults addressed to the old woman: “Stryge, 
harpy, magician, empresa, larva, lamia, lemur, ghoul, 
psylla, aspiole,” and whatever a thorough knowledge 
of Rabelais’ litanies could suggest in the way of curi- 
ous expressions. We tried in a few other places, still 
fruitlessly, and Delphine maintained that Balzac had 
imagined this “resource of Quinola”’ in order to be 
driven to Auteuil, where he had some business, and to 


have pleasant companions with him. 


9 129 


che ooh obo oe oe che he be rae o obec clock occ ob ok 


re wre Te 


PO.RT RATT S! OF Tater 


I fancy, however, that Balzac found for himself that 
Madame Fontaine whom we were looking for together, 
for in the “* Comédiens sans le savoir” he has described 
her between her hen Bibouche and her toad Astaroth, 
with frightful, fantastic truthfulness, if such words 
can be combined. Did he seriously consult her, or 
did he go to see her simply as an observer? ‘There 
are certain passages in the “ Comédie humaine ” which 
seem to imply that Balzac did have a sort of faith in 
occult sciences, concerning which officially recognised 
sciences have not yet spoken their last word. About 
this time Balzac began to exhibit a fancy for old 
furniture, boxes, and china. The smallest bit of 
worm-eaten furniture which he bought in the rue de 
Lappe always came from some illustrious place, and 
he developed detailed genealogies concerning the 
simplest knick-knacks. He concealed them here and 
there, always on account of those fantastic creditors, 
in whose existence I began to disbelieve. I even 
amused myself by spreading the report that Balzac 
was a millionaire, and that he was purchasing old 
stockings from dealers in insects and beetles to hide 
ounces, quadruples, Genovines, cross-pieces, pillar- 


pieces and double louis, after the manner of Father 


130 


oh ooh ak os oe ae ae oe ae oo adeeb oooh ce ee cece be abe oboe 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


Grandet; I reported everywhere that he had three 
wells, like Abul Khasim, filled to the mouth with 
carbuncles, dinars, and omans. ‘“ Théo will be the 
cause of my having my throat cut some morning 


> 


with his nonsense,” said Balzac, annoyed and delighted 
at one and the same time. 

My jokes gained some appearance of likelihood 
from the new dwelling inhabited by Balzac, in the 
rue Fortune, in the Beaujon quarter, less peopled 
then than now. He had there a small, mysterious 
house, which had sheltered the loves of a luxurious 
financier. From the outside one caught a glimpse 
over the wall of a sort of cupola, formed by the 
arched ceiling of a boudoir, and of the fresh paint of 
the closed shutters. 

When one entered this nook, which was not easy, 
for the master of the house concealed himself with 
excessive care, a thousand details of excessive luxury 
and comfort were seen which contradicted the poverty 
that he affected. He received me, however, one day, 
and I saw a dining-room wainscoted with old oak, 
with a table, chimneypiece, sideboards, credences, and 
chairs of carved wood which would have made Ber- 


ruguete, Cornejo, Duque, and Verbruggen envious ; 


131 


LEACH ELA ESSA eet ttettse 
POR-TRALG SA OFAT AEG 


a drawing-room hung with golden yellow damask, 
with doors, cornices, plinths, and windows of ebony ; 
a library of books placed in cases inlaid with mother- 
of-pearl and copper in the style of Boulle; a bathroom 
in yellow breccia with stucco bassi-relievi ; a domed 
boudoir, the old paintings of which had been restored 
by Edmond Heédouin; a gallery lighted from above, 
which I recognised later in the collection of ‘ Cousin 
Pons ;”’ on the shelves all sorts of curiosities, Dresden 
and Sévres porcelain, vases of craguelé celadon; and 
on the stairs, which were covered with a carpet, tall 
Chinese vases and a splendid lantern suspended by a 
red silk rope. 

“You must have emptied one of Abul Khasim’s 
hiding-places,”’ said I laughingly to Balzac, as I beheld 
these splendours. ‘You see, I was right when I 
said that you are a millionaire.” 

““[ am poorer than ever,” he replied, assuming a 
humble and contrite look. ‘None of that belongs to 
me. I furnished the house for a friend who is ex- 
pected, —I am only the watchman and guardian of 
the house.” 

I am quoting his words literally. He made the 


same reply to several persons, who were as much 


ra2 


amazed as I. The riddle was soon solved by the 
marriage of Balzac to the woman whom he had loved 
for so long a time. 

There is a Turkish proverb which says, “ When 
the house is finished Death enters.” That is why 
sultans always take care to have a palace in course 
of construction, which they are very careful not to 
finish. Life appears to want nothing to be complete 
save misfortune ; there is nothing to be so dreaded as 
a wish which has been fulfilled. 

The famous debts were paid at last, the desired 
marriage was an accomplished fact, the nest made for 
happiness was lined with down and cotton; and as if 
they had foreseen his approaching death, those who 
envied Balzac began to praise him. The “Parents 


5] 


pauvres”’ and ‘‘Cousin Pons,” in which the author’s 
genius shone in all its brilliancy, were unanimously 
admired. This was too much glory; there was 
nothing left for him but to die. The disease made 
rapid progress, but no one believed in a fatal ending, so 
much did we all trust in Balzac’s athletic constitution. 
I believed firmly that he would see us all to the grave. 

I was going to take a trip to Italy, and before leav- 


ing I wished to say good-bye to our illustrious friend. 


13 


abe ob oll ol ols obs alle abe alle obs ole abe cle ob che oll ole ole obs ob oe obs oly ole 


are we Ure ere ore wre 


POR DRA S) OF 2 Bh Ear 


fie 


He had driven out to pass some exotic curiosity through 
the customs. I went away reassured, and at the mo- 
ment when I was getting into the carriage I was 
handed a note from Madame de Balzac which kindly 
explained, with polite regret, why I had not found 
her husband at home. At the foot of the note Balzac 


had written these words : — 


‘*] can neither read nor write any more. 


‘¢ DE BaALzac.’’ 


I have preserved as a relic that dread line, probably 
the last ever written by the author of the ‘“* Comédie 
humaine.” It was—but I did not understand it at 
first —the last cry, the “ Ei, lama sabacthani” of the 
thinker and worker. The thought that Balzac could 
die did not even occur to me. 

A few days later I was eating an ice at the Café 
Florian on the Piazza San Marco; I opened the 
Journal des Débats, one of the few French papers 
which are allowed in Venice, and I saw in it the an- 
nouncement of Balzac’s death. I nearly fell from my 
chair on the stone flags of the Piazza, thunderstruck 
at the news; and my grief was soon mingled with an 


unchristian impulse of indignation and revolt, for all 


134 


seo ke oe be oe oe be che ae cbecbecke choco oboe cede oe bee 


CFO HO GO WO CTS OTe We UTE OXH OTE UTE 


HONORE DE BALZAC 


souls are of equal value before God. I had just been 
visiting the lunatic asylum in the island of San Servolo, 
and I had seen there decrepit idiots, octogenarian 
wrecks, human larva, deprived even of animal in- 
stinct; and I asked myself why that mighty brain had 
gone out like a candle on which one blows, when 
tenacious life lingered in these shadowed brains, faintly 
traversed from time to time by deceitful gleams. 

Eight years have elapsed since that fatal day, and 
every day Balzac looms larger. When he mingled with 
his contemporaries he was imperfectly appreciated, for 
he was seen only partially and under aspects at times 
unfavourable ; now the edifice which he built rises the 
higher as one draws away from it, like a cathedral in a 
city, masked by the neighbouring houses, but which on 
the horizon looms up vast above the lower roofs and 
monuments. [he monument has not been completed, 
but such as it is, it is terrifying in its enormity, and 
generations to come will ask themselves with surprise, 
Who was the giant that single-handed raised these for- 
midable blocks and built so high that tower of Babel in 
which a whole world is buzzing ? , 

Dead though he is, Balzac still has defamers. ‘The 


commonplace reproach of immorality, the last insult 


t35 


che oe oe oe he dhe he oh abe cde cecbe debe deeb che choca oho chee 


OTe Ye CHO ae Be oe ie 


PORTRATAI S| OF LHEBE 


of powerless and jealous mediocrity, or often of mere 
stupidity, is still cast on his memory. Not only is the 
author of the *“*Comédie humaine” not immoral, he 
is an austere moralist. A Royalist and a Catholic, 
he stands up for authority, praises religion, preaches 
duty, blames passions, and believes that happiness is 
to be obtained only through marriage and within the 
family circle. 

“¢ Man,” he says, “is neither good nor wicked; he 
is born with instincts and appetites; society, far from 
depraving him, as Rousseau maintained, improves him 
and makes him better, but interest develops also his 
evil tendencies. Christianity, and especially Catholi- 
cism, being, as I have stated in the ‘ Médecin de 
campagne,’ a complete system for the repression of 
the depraved tendencies of man, is the most powerful 
factor in social order.” 

And with an ingenuity becoming to a great man, 
foreseeing the reproach of immorality which wrong- 
headed people would address to him, he numbers the 
characters irreproachably virtuous which are to be 
met in the “Comédie humaine”: Pierrette Lorrain, 
Ursule Mirouét, Constance Birotteau, La Fosseuse, 


Eugénie Grandet, Marguerite Claés, Pauline de Ville- 
136 


a a cha Pcl tA a PETS tea tian eT 


arene DE BALZAC 


noix, Madame Jules, Madame de la Chanterie, Eve 
Chardon, Mademoiselle d’Esgrignon, Madame Fir- 
miani, Agathe Rouget, Renée de Maucombe; without 
counting among the men Joseph Le Bas, Genestas, 
Benassis, the cure Bonnet, Dr. Minoret, Pillerault, 
David Séchard, the two Birotteaus, Chaperon the 
cure, Popinot the judge, Bourgeat, the Sauviats, the 
‘Tascherons, etc. 

Rascally figures are not lacking, it is true, in the 
‘© Comédie humaine,” but is Paris peopled exclusively 


by angels? 


ou 


HLELLALLALLELAALAAL ALAA ELS 


HENRY MURGER 


Born IN 1822—DIED IN 1861 


ENRY MURGER tthought chiefly about 
youth, — indeed, he may be said to have 
thought of youth alone. Life seemed to 

have stopped with him with his twentieth year; he 
did not look forward, but backward, and at every step 
he took he turned his head around. The present had 
scarcely any existence for him; he lived in the past 
alone. He sorrowed because he no longer experienced 
the sweet surprise caused by emotions and feelings 
which is experienced but once, and he constantly 
returned to it in thought. He was wholly retrospec- 
tive, and in order to give colour to his poetry, he had 
to pass it through the prism of remembrance. Although 
he was thirty-eight when he died, his talent was al- 
ways that of a young man of twenty-five. Like 
certain actors who continue, in spite of their age, to 
play lovers’ réles, he could play the parts of youth 


only. On his tree of life the flower never turned 


138 


oe oe oboe be oe oe oe abe cfr de eade ele lobe oe shee 


CHO WO oe oF OTe 


HENRY MURGER 


into fruit; it was bound to remain a flower forever, 
and if it fell from its stem, it was to perfume with its 
faded imprint the pages of a reliquary. A bunch of 
faded violets, a bit of faded ribbon, a lock of hair under 
glass, a stray glove, formed the poet’s library. He 
read in his heart only, and reproduced only the impres- 
sion he had felt, and that a long time afterwards, when 
it was idealised through regret and melancholy. The 
pearls in his jewel case are the tears of bygone days 
which he preserved. Most careful is he of those dear 
treasures. With a trembling hand, in spite of his sar- 
castic look, he removes the sacred dust, and when not 
observed, turns a tearful glance towards the wall on 
which hangs near a Clodion the profile of Mimi or 
Musette. 

‘Tam speaking of the poet alone. As a journalist, 
as a writer, as a wit, he had other ways. Henry 
Murger was a child of Bohemia; he had dwelt in its 
seven castles so long sought by Charles Nodier, and 
it is not in so strange a country, where paradoxes are 
commonplaces, that many illusions can be preserved. 
The verdicts of wiseacres are reversed forthwith, and 
picaresque wisdom is condensed into maxims by the 


side of which La Rochefoucauld’s appear childish. 
eh 


LLEALAEA LALA LSS ALALLALL ERS 
POR THRAMSIS 0 Fy STE 


No one there is duped by anything or anybody, and 
the Bohemian, though in the midst of civilised life, 
attains to the suspicious sagacity of the Mohican. 
His defensive weapons are the arrows of wit, and 
some of his kind do not scruple to poison them. 
Murger, as I have said, never belonged to that class, 
but his hand was steady, his eye true, and his flash- 
ing bolts always struck their mark. Tender-hearted, 
he was sceptically minded ; on returning from a sen- 
timental turn in the woods, he took a turn behind the 
scenes at the theatre, and the journalist rallied the lover 
so hard that no one would have been tempted to make 
fun of him, not even his own mistress. 

Murger had long since left the country which artists 
and poets traverse, at the beginning of their career, at 
least, when fathers refuse allowances and budding talent 
gives promise only of a future harvest ; but he seemed 
to dwell in it still, so much did his thoughts delight to 
go back to that time of erratic liberty and of joyous 
want, in which hope bites so gaily with its beautiful 
teeth the hard bread of misery; and indeed, it is the 
happiest time, and I can understand the regrets felt 
for its disappearance. But it lasts a few years only, and 


there is no sadder sight than a gray-haired Bohemian or 


140 


che abe obs ob che os abe oe che be abe robe obec ole obec ob bea oe ohooh 
HENRY MURGER 


college student. “The Philistines, of yore the victims 
of so many practical jokes, are rightly entitled to rally 
him. 

Murger lived at Marlotte, near Fontainebleau, and 
in his waking dreams he often lost himself in the 
forest, in spite of the guiding lines and the footpaths 
laid out by the man who has been surnamed the Syl- 
van; but inspiration came to the poet just when he lost 
his way. ‘There, in the heart of strong, healthy nature, 
far from the feverish bustle of the city, that charming 
writer worked slowly and leisurely, so that at times 
his love of perfection seemed to be idleness. He lived 
his youth over again within himself, and reproduced it 
in tales sad but smiling, bright yet tender. During the 
whole summer long he vanished from all eyes, but in 
winter he occasionally went into society, which ever 
welcomed him gladly. He might be met on the 
boulevard, in magazine offices, and in his prodigal 
conversation he scattered in fifteen minutes more 
clever hits than were needed for a whole play. 

His book, “* Winter Nights,” opens with a son- 
net by way of preface, in which the author ban- 
teringly wishes all sorts of prosperity to the being 


who may be benevolent enough, artless enough, old- 


I41 


PELLALALLALLALALE ALLL ALS? ESS 


we 


POR THRIAWSS W/O FE SVE Dee 


fashioned enough, to pay a crown, in these days 
of prose, for three hundred pages of verse. ‘This 
sonnet, to use one of Murger’s own expressions, 
is the shrill fife which jeers at the violoncello, for 
naught can be more tender, more suave, more full of 
love, than the poems to which this buffoon sonnet is 
prefixed. 

Love, as understood by Murger, is of a particular 
sort. It is vain to look in his work for ardent 
prayers, hyperbolical compliments, exaggerated lamen- 
tations, any more than for high-flown dithyrambics and 
odes of triumphant intoxication; nor must one look 
for deep despair, for unending sobs, and cries that rend 
the heavens. Love with him shows itself mostly in 
the form of remembrance. If love has been fortunate, 
it is silent, nor will it speak unless it has suffered from 
betrayal, infidelity, or death. When pleasure itself was 
silent, grief now utters a sigh. Indeed, what Murger 
likes in love is suffering; he delights to feel the thorn 
rankling in the wound, and would not have it drawn. 
Leaning sadly on his elbow, he watches the red drops 
form and fall one by one, nor will he stanch the flow, 
even if his life is to ebb away with it. He did not 


choose his mistress; chance formed their ephemeral 


142 


$ttetebetetttetbtttett te 
HENRY MURGER 


tie, caprice will loosen it; the swallow came in by 
the open window; some fine day it will fly away, 
obeying its migratory instinct. The poet knows it, 
and it is unnecessary to repeat to him Shakespeare’s 
words, “ Frailty, thy name is woman.” He has fore- 
seen the betrayal, yet he suffers from it, and mourns 
over it with such gentle bitterness, with such tearful 
irony, with such resigned sadness, that the reader 
shares his emotion. Perhaps he did not love the 
woman he regrets when she was faithful to him, but 
now, transfigured as she is by absence, he worships 
her. A charming figure has replaced a commonplace 
ideal, and Musette becomes the equal of Béatrix or 
Laura. 

Two poems —‘“ The Requiem of Love” and “ Mu- 
sette’s Song ’?—in that part of the book entitled 
“‘ Lovers,” strike the key-note of Murger’s poetry. 
In the first, the poet, addressing himself to the mis- 
tress who had wrung his heart with feverish, cruel 
delight, like the Chinese princess who almost fainted 
as she tore with her long, transparent nails the most 
precious silken stuffs, seeks an air to which he may 
sing the requiem of his dead love. He tries one 


after another, but every melody recalls a remembrance. 


143 


abe che abe he ob ob be che che abe che chee che che che fe oho che he he oh abe ae 


se fe o7e we ee ete CFO C40 wie wo 


POR TRATES: YO F hth aa 


‘Oh, not that motive!” cries the poet; ‘ my heart, 
which I believed dead, trembles in my breast. I have 
heard it so often warbled by your lips. Nor that 
waltz, —that waltz which hurt me so much! Still 
less that /ied which Germans sang in the Meudon 
woods and which we repeated together! No music, 
—but let us talk of our old love without hatred or 
anger.” And Murger recalls the winter evenings 
spent in the little room, by the fireside on which the 
kettle hums its regular refrain; the long walks in 
spring through the meadows and the woods, and the 
innocent delights enjoyed in the midst of kindly 
nature; he composes once more that eternal poem 
of youth which six thousand years have never made 
old. ‘Then comes the disappointment.. One day the 
poet is alone, the fair one is gone. Good-bye to the 
gray shoes, the linen dress and the straw hat adorned 
with a natural flower! Rich silks rustle around the 
slender form, a cashmere shawl hangs in folds from 
the shoulders below the straying blond hair, a costly 
bracelet sparkles on the plump arm, rings cover the 
fingers, formerly browner, but now white through 
idleness. He might have expected it, the story is 


trite and common, the poet himself laughs madly at 


144 


secede teak oh hee abe eckeche choc che cheb oh chet 


epe ore 


HENRY MURGER 


it. ‘¢But my laughter is a sarcasm; my pen, as I 
write, trembles in my hand, and when I smile, my 
tears, like a hot shower, wash out the words upon the 


paper.” 


> 


The second, which is “ Musette’s Song,”’ strikes me 


as a perfect masterpiece of grace, tenderness, and 
originality. I cannot do better than to transcribe it, 


it is the best way to praise such a poem: — 


«¢ Yesterday, as I saw the swallow bringing back to us the 
time of spring, I remembered the fair one who loved me 
when she had time, and during the long, long day peaceful 
I gazed upon the old almanac of the year gone by, when she 
and I so greatly loved. 

<< No, my youth is not yet dead, nor is the thought of you 
vanished now; for if at my door you were to knock, my 
heart, Musette, would open quick, since at your name it 
always starts. O thou dear Muse of faithlessness, come back 
again to eat with me the blessed bread of happiness. 

«<The furniture of our little room, these dear old friends of 
our dead love, already smile at the mere hope of your return. 
Come back; you will recognise, my dear, all those who your 
departure mourned, —the little bed, and the great glass in 
which so often you drank my share. 

«¢ Again you will wear that fair white dress with which of 
yore you were adorned ; and as of yore, on Sunday next into 


the woods we’ll wander pres. Under the arbour at even 


me) I45 


aE Sa Ns ap —= 


check eal be check ch ecb cbeckecbecbe ch decd echo ah och 


PORTRAITS OF ‘Tats 


seated, again well drink the bright, clear wine in which your 
song its wing did dip before in air it flew away. 

«©The kindly god who bears no grudge for the naughty 
tricks you have played to me, will not refuse to grant a moon 
to light our kissings in the grove. Lovely nature you shall 
find as fair to-day as then, and ever, O my witching dear, 
ready upon our loves to smile. 

«« Musette, to whom remembrance came when carnival time 
drew to an end, on one fine morning returned to me like 
capricious bird to its old nest. But as I kissed the faithless 
one, my heart no emotion felt, and Musette — Musette no 
more — said I was no more myself. 

«‘ Farewell, begone, my dear, dear one; for now in- 
deed, with our last love, our youth is buried deep within the 
old almanac. Only by stirring up the ashes of the fair days it 
once did hold can remembrance ever give us back the key to 
ope our lost paradise.” 


Two poems full of sad presentiment —alas, too 
true! — close the book. ‘The one is an almost caress- 
ing appeal to death; the other a sort of testament, half 
serious, half ironical, in which the author, doubting 
whether he will be able to take his seat among the 
group of elect who will see “1’Africaine,” makes his 
last will and arranges for his funeral, and draws a de- 
sign for his tomb. “Thomas Hood, the witty editor of 
“Punch ”and the author of that “Song of the Shirt ” 


146 


Sketeeebetetttttttttt tte 
HENRY MURGER 


which made such a sensation in England, also indulged 
in that gloomy fancy of drawing his own monument, 
and for epitaph he put on it, “‘ He wrote the ‘Song of 
the Shirt’.” So might be written on Murger’s tomb, 


ap | 


‘¢ He wrote ‘ Musette’s Song’. 


147 


kkekkteeetettttthtbtotth bh 


FOr tT raths Of tune Day 


CHARVES BAUDET ATR 


Born IN 1821 — DIED IN 1867 


———EE 


pete though his life was, — he was scarce 


forty-six when he died, — Charles Baudelaire 

had time to make his mark and to inscribe his 
name upon that wall of the nineteenth century on 
which are already written so many signatures, many of 
them no longer legible; but his will remain, I have no 
doubt, for it is that of a man whose talent was original 
and strong, who disdained even to excess the common- 
places which make popularity easy, who cared only 
for what was rare, difficult, and strange, whose literary 
conscience was quick, who never, in spite of the ne- 
cessities of life, let go a work before he thought it per- 
fect, who weighed every word as the “ Misers” of 
Quentin Matsys weigh doubtful ducats, who read 
proofs ten times over, who submitted his poems to the 
subtile critic that was himself, and who sought to real- 
ise with unwearying efforts the particular ideal which 


he had set up. 
148 


Stiketeeeetetetbttbtddht 
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE 


Born in India and knowing English thoroughly, he 
began with translations of Edgar Poe, which are so 
admirable that they appear to be original, and that the 
author’s thoughts are improved by the passage from 
one tongue into the other. Baudelaire naturalised in 
France that author whose imagination is so learnedly 
eccentric, and by the side of whom Hoffmann is but 
a Paul de Kock in fantastic literature. Thanks to 
Baudelaire, I enjoyed the uncommonly rare experience 
of a totally unknown literary savour; my mental palate 
was as much surprised as when I drank at the Exposi- 
tion some of the American drinks, sparkling mixtures 
of ice, soda water, ginger, and other exotic ingredients. 
Into what mad transports of delight I was thrown by 
the reading of “The Gold Bug,” the “Fall of the 
House of Usher,” and all those tales so truly called 
extraordinary. he fantastic effects produced by alge- 
braic and scientific processes, tales such as “The Mur- 


> 


der in the Rue Morgue,” wrought out as carefully as a 
judicial inquiry, and especially “The Stolen Letter,” 
which in its sagacious inductions could give points to 
the cleverest detectives, excited curiosity to the high- 
est degree, and Baudelaire’s name became in some sort 


inseparable from the American author’s. 


149 


LLELEALAEAEPELAALELEAA?L ELSE 
PORTRAYTES! OF “TEA 


The translations were preceded by a most interesting: 
study of Edgar Poe from the biographical and meta- 
physical point of view. It was impossible to analyse 
more cleverly a genius so eccentric that at times it 
seems to border on madness, and which has for its 
basis a pitiless logic that carries the consequences of 
an idea to extremes. ‘The mixture of heat and cold- 
ness, of intoxication and mathematical processes, the 
strident raillery flushed with most poetical lyrical effu- 
sions were thoroughly understood by Baudelaire. He 
felt the liveliest sympathy for the proud and eccentric 
character which so greatly shocked American cant, an 
unpleasant variety of English cant, and the assiduous 
reading of that dizzy mind had a great influence upon 
him. Edgar Poe was not only a writer of extraordi- 
nary tales, a journalist whom no one has surpassed in 
the art of arranging a scientific canard, a supreme prac- 
tical joker, playing upon gaping credulity ; he was also 
an zsthete of the very first order, a very great poet, 
whose art was most refined and complex. His poem of 
“The Raven” produces, by the gradation of strophes 
and the disquieting persistency of the refrain, an 
intense effect of melancholy, terror, and fatal presenti- 


ment which it is difficult to resist. It is not impugning 


150 


ttéeeeettetettttetttttttttst 
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE 


Baudelaire’s originality to say that in the ‘“ Flowers of 
Evil” there is a reminiscence, as it were, of Edgar 
Poe’s mysterious manner, with a background of Roman- 
ticist colouring. 

A few years ago, it not being my habit to wait for 
the death of my friends before praising them, I wrote 
an essay on Baudelaire, prefixed to a selection of his 
poems included in the * Collection of French Poets,” 
in which occurs a passage on the “ Flowers of Evil,” 
the most important and the most individual work of the 
author. As this passage cannot be suspected of post- 
humous complaisance, | may repeat about the poet, 
who has died so prematurely and unfortunately, what I 


said about him when alive :— 


«In one of Hawthorne’s tales, there is a description of a 
curious garden in which a botanist, who is also a toxicologist, 
has collected the flora of poisonous plants. These plants, with 
their strangely cut leaves of a blackish, or glaucous mineral- 
green, as if they were dyed with sulphate of copper, possess 
a sinister and formidable beauty ; in spite of their charm, 
they are felt to be dangerous ; their haughty, provoking, and 
perfidious attitude betrays the consciousness of mighty power 
or irresistible seductiveness. Their blooms, fiercely striped 
and barred, of a purple colour resembling clotted blood, 


or chlorotic white, exhale bitter, intoxicating perfumes; in 


I51 


kbbed bc ot he ch hee che che ohh che che hoch ohh oft ohooh 


PS CTS VTS WE 


POR TVRATIS (OF THE ta 


their poisonous calyxes dew is) transformed into aqua tofana, 
and around them buzz only cantharides with their corselets 
of green and gold, and steel-blue flies whose sting causes 
carbuncles. ‘The euphorbia, the deadly nightshade, the 
henbane, the hemlock, the belladonna mingle their cold venom 
with the burning poisons of the tropics and of India. The 
manchineel displays its little apples, as deadly as those that 
hung from the tree of the knowledge of good and eyil, the 
upas tree drops its milky juice which burns deeper than acid. 
Above the garden, hovers a deadly vapour which suffocates 
birds as they pass through it. Yet the doctor’s daughter lives 
with impunity amid these mephitic miasmas ; her lungs breathe 
in without danger an atmosphere which to any one else than 
her father and herself would be certain death. She makes 
necklaces of these flowers, she adorns her hair and perfumes 
her bosom with them, she bites their petals as maids nibble at 
the petals of roses. Slowly saturated with venomous juices, 
she has become herself a living poison; she neutralises all 
others. Her beauty, like that of the plants of the garden, has 
something weird, fatal, morbid about it, Her hair, of a bluish 
black, contrasts strangely with her complexion, dead pale and 
greenish, on which her lips show so purple that they seem to 
be stained by some sanguine berry ; her strange smile reveals 
teeth set in dark-red gums, and her fixed glance fascinates and 
repels. She looks like one of those Javanese women, vampires 
of love, diurnal succube, whose love exhausts in a fortnight 
the blood, the marrow, and the soul of a European. And 
yet she is a virgin, she is the doctor’s daughter, and languishes 


152 


RKEKKALEL LEAS SAAS ttt 
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE 


in solitude. Love seeks in vain to acclimatise itself in that 
atmosphere, out of which she herself could not live. 

«<T have never read the ¢ Flowers of Evil’ of Charles 
Baudelaire without thinking involuntarily of this tale of Haw- 
thorne’s. His flowers also have sombre, metallic tints, verdi- 
grised fronds, and intoxicating odours. His muse resembles the 
doctor’s daughter, whom no poisons can harm and whose 
complexion, by its bloodless pallor, tells of the atmosphere in 
which she lives.” 

Baudelaire was pleased with this comparison, and he 
liked to see in it the personification of his talent. He 
also gloried in this remark of a great poet: ‘‘ You have 
given to the heaven of art a strange, ghastly beam; 
you have created a new shudder.” And yet it would 
be a great mistake to suppose that among his mandra- 
goras and poppies and colchicums there is not to be 
met with here and there a blooming rose with innocu- 
ous perfume, some great Indian flower opening its 
white petals to the pure air of heaven. When Baude- 
laire depicts the ugly things of humanity and civilisa- 
tion, it is with secret horror; he has no liking for 
them; he looks upon them as violations of the uni- 
versal rhythm. When he was called immoral, —a 
big word which people in France know how to use 


nearly as well as people in America,—he was as 


153 


SSN SSS ITS SE 


TE = 


LEECAKALLE PPA AAS AALAL ELS 
PORTRAWTS “OFS DAES ae 


much surprised as if he had heard jessamine praised 
for its honesty, and bitter ranunculus stigmatised for 
its wickedness. 

Besides Poe’s tales, Baudelaire translated the same 
author’s “Adventures of Allen Gordon Pym,” which 
end with that fearful swallowing up in the whirlpool 
of the Antarctic Pole. He also put into French the 
cosmogonic dream called “ Eureka,” in which the 
American author, making use of the celestial mechan- 
ics of La Place, seeks to guess at the secret of the uni- 
verse, and believes he has found it. How difficult was 
the translation of such a piece of work can be readily 
imagined. 

Under the title of “The Artificial Paradise,’ Baude- 
laire summed up, at the same time introducing into it 
his own reflections, the work of De Quincey, the Eng- 
lish opium-eater, and made of it a sort of treatise 
which must necessarily in several places be almost 
identical with Balzac’s “ Theory of Stimulants,” which 
has remained unpublished. It forms most interesting 
reading, illumined as it is by phantasmagoria and the 
depicting of the most brilliant, the most curious, the 
most terrible hallucinations produced by this seductive 


poison, which stupefies China and the East with its fic- 


154 


HLELLAADL AL LEAL ALALALEL SS 
CA Reb Sabo WD E LAS ERIE 


titious bliss. Ihe author blames the man who seeks 
to avoid inevitable pain and rises into an artificial para- 
dise only to fall into a blacker hell. 

Baudelaire was a most sagacious art critic, and he 
brought to the appreciation of painting a metaphysical 
subtlety and an originality in his point of view which 
make one regret that he did not devote more time to 
this sort of work. ‘The pages which he wrote about 
Delacroix are most remarkable. 

Towards the end of his life he wrote a few short 
poems in prose, but in rhythmic prose, wrought out 
and polished like the most concentrated poetry. “They 
are strange fancies, landscapes of another world, un- 
known figures which you fancy you have seen else- 
where, spectral realities, phantoms possessed of terrible 
reality. These productions appeared somewhat at 
haphazard here and there, in various reviews, and it is 
much to be desired that they should be collected in 
book form, with the addition of any others which the 
author may have kept in his desk. 


155 


ALPHONSE DE LAMAR@i 


Born IN 1790 —DIED IN 1869 


DO not intend to write a biography of Lamar- 
1 tine, still less a detailed estimate of his work, 

but I do wish to bring that great figure out of 
the half shadow in which he enveloped himself for 
some years past in the solitude and silence of his later 
days, and to place it in the light which henceforth will 
never again desert it. 

As a humble poet, enslaved to prose through the 
necessities of journalism, I shall try to pass judgment 
on a great poet. It is rash of me to do so, for my 
brow does not reach his feet, but statues are best ap- 
preciated from below. His deserves to be carved out 
of the finest Parian or Carrara marble, free from all 
spot or stain. 

Lamartine has told himself, in a style which no one 
else can imitate, his earliest recollections of his child- 
hood and his family; he has told of the opening of his 


young soul to life, to reverie, to thought, — immortai 


156 


kebebteteeeteetebtttdetttest 


Fe ee CFe vFe ae we 


MLERONSE DE LAM ARON E 


confidences of genius which the public collects and in 
which it takes pleasure, for each can fancy that that 
voice, so intimate and penetrating, speaks to him alone 
as to an unknown friend. So I shall let Lamartine 
seek, through his reveries, his passions, his loves, his 
travels, in the course of a life apparently idle, the way 
which was to be followed, and which is not always 
easily made out amid the tangled minglings of human 
affections. No doubt all the generous sentiments 
which he was to express so admirably, — love, faith, 
the religious worship of nature, the longing for heaven, 
— were already surging within him; but the world as 
yet saw in him only a handsome youth, aristocratic, 
elegant, of perfect manners and destined to win success 
in drawing-rooms. He had twice travelled in Italy. 
At that time he said nothing of the impression which 
must have been produced upon him by the clear 
heavens, the sea bluer even than the sky, the vast 
prospects, the trees with shining, strong foliage, the 
ruins magnificent in their destruction, the vigorous, 
warm-coloured nature through which wandered like 
mute shadows inhabitants bowed under the yoke of 
servitude and under the greatness of their past. But 


the poetry of it all was slowly welling up within his 


157 


dhe cbc deo che heck ch ch choco locle ob abode cde cde aheoeok 


He Fe whe 


PORTRAITS OF T Hi tae 


heart, the secret treasure was growing every day, and 
new pearls were being added to the mysterious casket 
which was to open later. If he rivalled Byron, to 
whom he dedicated an epistle equal to the finest pas- 
sages of ‘ Childe Harold,” it was merely as a dandy. 

Having returned to France, he allowed some years 
to pass by in that feverish yet fruitful idleness whence 
spring great works; and in 4820 appeared a modest 
volume for which he had some difficulty in finding a 
publisher. It was the “ Meditations.’ This book 
was an event infrequent in the course of ages. It 
contained a whole new world, a world of poetry, more 
dificult perhaps to discover than America or the At- 
lantides. While he seemed to be coming and going 
with indifference among other men, Lamartine was 
travelling over unknown seas, his eye fixed upon his 
star, drawn towards a shore on which no one had yet 
stepped, and had returned victorious like Columbus, — 
he had discovered the soul. 

It would be difficult to understand to-day, after so 
many revolutions, downfalls, and vicissitudes in human 
affairs, after seeing so many literary systems tried and 
forgotten, so much extravagance in thought and in lan- 


guage, the universal enthusiasm evoked by the “ Medi- 


158 


bieebbbttttttetttttttt tt 
AUR ONSE DE 7h A MARIN E 


tations.”” It was like a breath of freshness and of 
rejuvenation, like the fluttering of wings passing over 
souls. Young men and maidens and women carried 
their admiration to the point of worship ; Lamartine’s 
name was on every lip, and the Parisians, who are not 
poetic, after all, filled with madness like the Abderites 
who incessantly repeated the chorus of Euripides, “ O 
Love, mighty Love,” quoted, as they met, the stanzas 
of “The Lake.” Never was there so great a success. 

The fact is, Lamartine was not merely a poet, he 
was poetry itself. His chaste, elegant, noble language 
seemed to ignore wholly the ugly and mean side of 
life. As the book was, so was the author, and the 
best frontispiece which could have been selected for 
the volume of verse was the poet’s own portrait; a 
lyre in his hands and on his shoulders a cloak blown 
about by the storm were in no wise ridiculous. 

What deep, new accents, what ethereal aspirations, 
what upspringing towards the ideal, what effusions of 
love, what tender and melancholy notes, what sighs 
and questionings of the soul which no poet had yet 
caused to sound! In the pictures drawn by Lamartine, 
the heavens always occupy much space. He needs 


that space to move about easily, and to draw broad 


159 


KEAALALE PSSA HHeSeeeee dee 
PORTRAITS -OF “THE eDaty 


circles around his thoughts. He floats, he flies, he 
soars ; like the swan resting on its great, white wings, 
sometimes in the light, sometimes in a light haze, 
sometimes, too, in storm clouds, he rarely settles on 
the earth, and soon resumes his flight with the first 
breeze that ruffles his plumes. ‘That fluid, transpar- 
ent, aerial element which opens before him and closes 
behind him, is his natural road; he maintains himself 
in it without difficulty for many hours, and from his 
lofty heights he sees the landscape turn faint and blue, 
the waters shimmer and the buildings rise in vaporous 
effacement. 

Lamartine is not one of those marvellous artist poets 
who hammer verse as if it were a blade of gold upon 
a steel anvil, making closer the grain of the metal and 
shaping it to sharp, accurate outlines. He ignores or 
disdains every excess of form, and with the negligence 
of the nobleman, who rimes only when minded, without 
restricting himself to technical matters, he writes admi- 
rable poems as he rides through the woods, as he floats 
in his boat along some shady bank, or leans on the 
window of one of his castles. His verse rolls on with 
harmonious murmur, like the waves of Italian or Greek 


waters, which bear on their transparent crests branches 


160 


th tea oe be oh se he cdeaale bec cbe obec le obec 
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE 


of laurel, golden fruits fallen ftom the shore, and reflect 
the sky, the birds or the sails, or break on the strand in 
brilliant, silvery foam. Its full, sweeping, successive 
undulating forms, impossible to fix as water, reach 
their aim, and, fluid as they are, bear thoughts as the 
sea bears vessels, whether a frail skiff or a ship of 
the line. 

There is a magic charm in that breathing verse, 
which swells and sinks like the breast of ocean; one is 
carried away by the melody, by the chorus of rimes, as 
by the distant song of sailors or sirens. Lamartine is 
probably the greatest magician in poetry. 

His broad, vague manner of writing suits the exalted 
spirituality of his nature. The soul does not need to 
be carved like Greek marble. Lights and sounds, 
breathings, opaline tints, rainbow colours, blue moon- 
light-beams, diaphanous gauze, aerial draperies swelling 
and rising in the breeze, suffice to depict and envelop 
it. The Latin expression, muse ales, seems to have 
been invented for Lamartine. 

In that immortal poem, “The Lake,” in which 
passion speaks a tongue which the finest music has 
never equalled, vaporous nature appears as through a 


silver gauze, distant, afar, painted with a few touches 


II 161 


= 
we ove 


cece oe obo oe abe dhe oe de ae ch cbc ebook 
POR TR AES  “OLF ob 


so it shall serve as a framework and a background 
to that unforgettable remembrance; and yet everything 
is seen, the light in the heavens, the water and the 
rocks, the trees on the shore and the mountains on the 
horizon, and every wave that casts its foam upon the 
adored feet of Elvira. 

And yet, because in Lamartine there is always a 
mist and a sound of the zolian harp, it is not to be 
taken for granted that he is merely a melodious lake 
poet, and can only sigh softly of melancholy and love. 
If he sighs, he can also speak and shout; he rules as 
easily as he charms; his angelic voice, which seems to 
issue from the depths of the heavens, can assume at 
need a virile accent. 

At Naples, a marriage brought about by that admi- 
ration which attracts women to the poet of their dreams, 
made him happy and rich. A young lady, like those 
charming, romantic heroines of Shakespeare, who are 
attracted by a glance, and who are faithful unto death, 
brought him her love and a most princely fortune. 
France saw the phenomenon, rare in our country, of a 
poet who was not poor, and whose fancy could unfold 
itself splendidly in the full sunshine. People affect to 


believe that poverty, that lean, harsh nurse, is better for 


ios 


We oe ape 0 vTo vyo 


ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE 


ah ohn obs ole obs obs ol obs aboabs ole obs obs ole ole obs ele cle alls ebnobe 


genius than riches. It is a mistake. A poet’s nature 
is prodigal, careless, generous; it loves luxury as the 
material expression of poesy; it loves to realise its 
caprices in its verse and in its life, to form for itself an 
environment from which shall be excluded every ugly, 
mean, prosaic thing. Mathematics are repugnant to it 
(Lamartine had a horror of them and looked upon 
them as obstacles to thought), and with a hand that 
never counts it draws from the three wells of Abul 
Khasim the dinars which it scatters around like a golden 
rain. Untroubled by any of those obstacles which 
wear out the strength of the greatest minds, Lamartine 
was enabled to give free course to his genius, to expand 
completely, and the chill of poverty did not wither its 
magnificent flowers. 

After the “* Meditations ” came the ‘“ Harmonies,” 
in which the poet’s flight reaches to the greatest 
heights, — it seems to take him within the starry 
regions. ‘There are in this volume poems of ineffable 
beauty and of grand melancholy. Never since the days 
of Job did the human soul utter, in the presence of the 
formidable mysteries of life and death, more desperate, 
heart-breaking plaints than in the “* Novissima Verba.” 


The success of the “ Harmonies”? was immense, but 


163 


tetbeetbreetettttttttttes 
PORTRAIAS OF Senin 


though the work was superior to its predecessor, its 
success could not surpass that of the ‘ Meditations.” 
Admiration had at once bestowed on Lamartine all 
that it can give to a man; it had exhausted in his 
favour its flowers and its censers; no additional beam 
could be put into the aureole of the poet, the splen- 
dour of his noonday could add nothing to the glory 
of his dawn. | 
Amid these sounds of triumph, Lamartine had started 
on his voyage to the Orient, not as a humble pilgrim 
with white staff in his hand, and scallops on shoulder, 
but with royal luxury, on a vessel chartered by himself, 
which bore for the emirs presents worthy of Haroun al 
Raschid ; and once he landed, travelling with caravans 
of Arab horses that he had purchased, buying the houses 
in which he had slept, erecting in the desert tents as 
splendid as Solomon’s pavilions of gold and purple. 
Lord Byron alone had made poetry travel so sumptu- 
ously. ‘The tribes, amazed, hastened with acclamations 
along his way, and nothing would have been easier for 
the poet than to have had himself proclaimed Caliph. 
Lady Hester Stanhope, that illuminated Englishwoman 
who inhabited Lebanon, offered him the horse whose 


back in its outline resembles a sort of saddle and which 


164 


deb deck ch ck dekh ecb edebedede ech aback dh obeh 
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE 


Hakim, the king of the Druses, is to ride in his next 
incarnation. She predicted to him that one day he 
would hold in his aristocratic hand the destinies of 
his country. 

Through all this Lamartine passed on, tranquil, 
almost indifferent, like a high-bred lord whom nothing 
astonishes and who feels that all the homage paid him 
is his due. He accepted all the worship with a kindly 
smile, but without being intoxicated by it. It appeared 
quite natural to him that he should be handsome, ele- 
gant, rich, endowed with genius, and that he should 
excite admiration and love. But that almost super- 
human happiness was not to last. The ancient 
Greeks believed in the existence of jealous divinities 
which they called Moire, the jealous eyes of which 
were hurt by the sight of the happiness which they 
enjoyed spoiling. It was to appease the Moire 
that Polycrates, too happy, cast into the sea his ring, 
which a fisherman brought back. No doubt one of 
these wicked deities met the poet on his triumphal tour 
and. was shocked by his happiness and glory, by the 
union in him of so marvellous gifts. She stretched out 
her withered hand, and Julia, the lovely child, who 


was accompanying her father to those sunny lands in 
165 


te  Y 


debcboek bcbk bch detec chee choc oh chek 


ere me FS oFO 


PORTRAITS OF THE 


which life seems to renew its energies, bowed her head 
like a flower touched by the ploughshare, and the 
vessel which had sailed with white wings, came back 
with black sails, bringing a bier. 

The loss was irreparable, the despair was lasting, the 
wound one of those which can never close and which 
ever bleed. No doubt it was reserved to the two 
greatest poets of our day to feel that grief which 
cannot be consoled in order that they should pay for 
their glory. 

The muse alone with its rhythms can soothe and 
sometimes lull that regret for the dear being lost for no 
apparent reason. Lamartine published his * Jocelyn,” 
a tender and pure epic of the soul, in which are re- 
lated, not the brilliant adventures of a hero, but the 
sufferings of a lowly, unknown heart; a delicate master- 
piece full of feeling and of tears of Alpine whiteness, 
as pure as the snow of the highest peaks which no 
impure breath reaches, and where love, which is un- 
aware of its own existence, so chaste is it, might form 
the subject of contemplation for angels. Never was 
a success more sympathetic, never was a book more 
eagerly read and more wetted with tears. 


The “ Angel’s Fall’? was not so well understood. 


166 


checks ole oe abe ede ob cde cb aba ob cb cb cb ch cb ob ah cheb 


Bile GINS Wor ol A MARION E 


Magnificent passages rich in Oriental colour, which 
seemed to be leaves taken from the Bible, were but 
half successful, and that because of the strangeness 
of the subject, the singularity of the pictures drawn 
from a world anterior to our own, the excessive 
grandeur of personages greater than human nature; 
and further, I must confess, through increasing care- 
lessness in composition and style. 

After the publication of the “ Poetic Recollections ”’ 
with their long vibrations, last echoes of the * Medi- 


> 


tations” and of the “‘ Harmonies,” the poet bade fare- 
well to the muse and laid down his harp, never again 
to take it up. He was filled with the desire for a 
practical and active life. He had been attaché and 
life-guard, he now wished to be a deputy. People 
who think they are serious-minded because they are 
prosaic, unaware that poetry alone influences the soul 
and that imagination carries away the crowd, sneered 
as they saw the dreamer who was called “ Elvira’s 
poet,” approach the tribune; but soon it was under- 
_ stood that he who can sing can also speak, and that 
the poet has a golden mouth. From his harmonious 
lips speeches came winged, vibrating, and possessing 


like the bee at once honey and a sting. Poetry is 


167 


téeteteteedeetttttettettees 


PORTRANDS..0.F Wiha 


easily transformed into eloquence; it has passion, 
warmth, thought, generous feeling, prophetic instinct, 
and—no matter what one may say to the contrary — 
that high, supreme reason which soars over everything 
and does not allow general truth to be troubled by 
accidental facts. 

The Girondins brought about the Revolution, or at 
least, greatly helped it. Lamartine found himself in 
the presence of the billows which he had let loose, and 
which broke in foam and thunder at his feet, rolling on 
their angry crests the débris of the last monarchy; he 
accepted the mission to harangue the stormy sea, to 
reason with the tempest, to hold back the lightning 
within the clouds. It was a dangerous mission, which 
he accomplished like a nobleman and a hero. Then 
it was plainly seen that all poets were not like Horace, 
who fled from the battlefield, non bene relicta parmula. 
He had cast a spell upon ferocious instincts, and the 
tamed tumult roared under his balcony to make him 
come forth, to see him and hear him. As soon as he 
appeared, the crowd was silent, awaiting some noble 
words, some grave advice, some generous thought, and 
it withdrew satisfied, bearing away with it the seeds of 
harmony and of devotion to humanity. 

168 


EL 


decd choles che de ok ch de cdedeclecbecbecls dee oebeale de chook 


ALPHONSE DE LAMAR FINE 
The poet exposed himself to the bullet which might 


be shot by some too radical utopist or too backward a 
fanatic, with the high-bred disdain of the nobleman 
who despises death as being vulgar and common,—a 
superior sort of dandyism which middle-class people 
find it difficult to imitate. If he threw himself of his 
own free will into that abyss, it was because he had no 
interest whatever in it, and was sure to destroy himself. 
Then was seen a thing strange indeed in our modern 
civilisation, —a man playing in open day and in his 
own person the part of a moderating Tyrtaeus, of an 
Orpheus, tamer of wild beasts, doctus lenire tigres, urg- 
ing to well doing, calling away from evil, and stretch- 
ing over disorder the thought of harmony and of 
beauty. Without a police, without an army, without 
any repressive means, he held in by pure poetry a 
whole excited people. He uttered in the presence of 
the extreme republicans these sublime words: ‘The 
tricolour flag has travelled around the world with our 
glory, the red flag has travelled around the Champ de 
Mars only.” And the tricolour continued to wave 
triumphant in the breeze. 

He spent his genius, his health, his fortune in this 


business with the most generous carelessness. He 


169 


ch oe oe ake oe fe be ae che he oe ocde hecho cde abel abo ebe ceo ote oe 


PORTRAGMS OF THE was 


made the greatest human effort that ever was tried; he 
stood alone against an unbridled multitude. For sev- 
eral days he it was who saved France and gave her 
time to await better times. And as nothing is so un- 
grateful as terror, once peril is past, he lost his popu- 
larity. “Those who owed him their lives perhaps, their 
riches and their safety unquestionably, thought him 
ridiculous when, after having thrown to the winds for 
their benefit all his treasure, with the noble confidence 
of the poet who thinks he may ask for a drachma in 
return for a talent from those whom he had spellbound 
and preserved, he sat down on the threshold of his 
ruined home and, holding out his helmet, said, ‘* Date 
obolum Belisario.’ Debts were behind him, forcing 
him to hold out his hand. 

He was certainly a great enough man to play with 
his creditors the scene between Don Juan and M. 
Dimanche, but he would not do it, and France beheld 
the sad spectacle of the poet growing old and bowed 
from dawn till night under the yoke of paying copy. 
The demigod who remembered heaven wrote novels, 
pamphlets, and articles like us. Pegasus cut his furrow, 
dragging a plough which, had he outstretched his wings, 


he could have carried away amid the stars. 


170 


Born IN 1799 — DIED IN 1863 


OUNT ALFRED DE VIGNY was one of 
‘© the most illustrious members of the Roman- 
ticist school, and although his reserved and 
refined nature led him to keep apart from the crowd, he 
did not fear to face it when the sacred doctrine was at 
stake. In spite of his dislike for the rough battles of 
the stage, he translated Shakespeare’s ‘“‘ Othello”? with 
courageous fidelity and braved the stormy pit. This 
translation, in which accuracy never turns into awk- 
wardness, and which has all the freedom of an original 
work, has not remained in the repertory, and it was 
only after an interval of about thirty years that Rouviére 
brought out again and performed “The Moor of 
Venice” upon a Boulevard stage. “The preface, which 
is a masterpiece of grace, wit, and irony, is full of ideas 
new at that time and still new to-day. 
Few writers have realised the ideal of a poet as fully 


as Alfred de Vigny. Of noble birth, bearing a name as 


171 


thtrertbeettetedettttetetee 
PORTIRADDES (OF Wiha 


melodious as the sound of the lyre, of seraphic beauty, 
which even in his later age suffering alone could dimin- 
ish, rich enough not to be driven by vulgar necessity 
to wretched labours day by day, he preserved his pure, 
calm, and poetic literary physiognomy. He was indeed 
the poet of Eloa, the virgin born of a tear of Christ, 
who came down, drawn by pity, to console Lucifer. 
This poem, which is perhaps the most beautiful and 
the most perfect in the French language, could have 
been written by no one but de Vigny, even amid all 
that company of great poets who shone in the heaven 
of letters; he alone knew the secret of those pearly 
grays, of those soft reflections, of that blue moonlight, 
which make the immaterial visible against the white 
background of the divine light. But the men of to- 
day appear to have forgotten “Eloa;” it is rarely . 
spoken of or. quoted, though a priceless gem set in the 
golden gates of the tabernacle. ‘“Symeta,”’ ‘ Dolo- 
rida,” “The Horn,” “The Sérieuse Frigate,” exhibit 
in every part exquisite concordance between form and 
thought; they are priceless flagons holding concen- 
trated essences the perfume of which never dies. 
Like all the artists of the new school, Alfred de 


Vigny wrote as well in prose as in verse. He gave us 


12, 


check obo aly obs oe te he chee celeche che cde foals feeble abe oes 


ere eo oFe OTe ere oe Te re 


AWMRE DOD E) V LGIN'Y 


“« Cing-Mars,”’ the novel which in our literature comes 
closest to Walter Scott’s work; “Stello,” ‘ Military 
Grandeur and Servitude,’ in which is “The Red 
Seal,” a masterpiece of description, interest, and feeling 
which it is impossible to read without tears springing 
to one’s eyes; “ Chatterton,” his great success; ‘ The 
Maréchale d’Ancre,” a drama which proved to be a 
semi-failure; ‘ Getting off with a Fright,” a delightful 
pastel; and a translation of “*’ The Merchant of Ven- 
ice,’ which ought to be performed as a homage to his 
memory in these days of ours, when masterpieces 
are none too numerous. 

Never did poetry have a more ardent defender than 
de Vigny, and although Sainte-Beuve did say of him, 
very kindly and with admiration, when speaking of the 
battles of the Romanticist school, ** De Vigny, more 
reserved, before noon returned within his ivory tower,” 
yet from the depths of his retreat he maintained the 
sacred rights of thought against the oppression of mate- 
rial things; he loudly claimed, though he possessed 
both, leisure and bread for the poet. “That was his 
fixed idea. He developed it in every possible aspect in 
“ Stello”? and in “ Chatterton”; he bestowed upon it 


the dazzling consecration of the drama. He rightly 


173 


bbb bbb bb ebb bob 


FS OMe ate 


PORTRATTS (OF “Dnt gpia 


looks upon the poet as the pariah of modern civilisa- 
tion, driven out during his lifetime and stripped after 
his death, for he alone cannot bequeath to posterity 
the fruit of his work. 

When we think of de Vigny, we involuntarily 
imagine him like a swan, moving along, his head 
somewhat bent back, his wings half filled with the 
breeze, floating upon those transparent waters of Eng- 
lish parks, a Virginia water rayed with a moonbeam 
that filters through the dull green of the foliage of the 
willows. He is the white light in a beam, a silver 
streak on a limpid mirror, a sigh amid water flowers 
and pale foliage. He may also be compared to one of 
the nebulous milky drops on the blue bosom of the 
heaven, which shine less than other stars because they 


are placed higher and farther away. 


174 


DECEMBER, 1857 


NE of the deep impressions of my youth was 
made upon me by the first performance 
of ‘Chatterton,’ which took place, as 

every one knows, on February 12, 1835. So the 
other evening, when I was going to the Théatre-Fran- 
cais, I felt a certain uneasiness, in no wise caused, I 
hasten to say, by the talent of Alfred de Vigny, —I 
was uncertain about myself. Would I feel again the 
emotions of my youth, the artless and trustful enthusi- 
asm, the perfect consonance with the work, all the 
feelings which then animated me? When age has 
come, as a great poet has said, one must avoid coming 
across the opinions or the women one loved at twenty. 
My admiration, however, was more fortunate. 

When “Chatterton”? was first performed, it was 
even more distinct from the general run of plays than 
it is to-day. That was the heyday of the historical, 


Shakespearean drama, filled with incidents, crowded 


e75 


CTO CFO GO VIO WTO CFO ETO OTe WS 


PORTRADGHS\ OF THE Wiis 


che bea oto obe oho ee oe fe abe cbe ce eas eee ce ce aoe oak 


with characters, bedizened with local colour, full of fire 
and fury. Buffoonery and lyric poetry rubbed elbows 
in it in accordance with the prescribed formula. ‘The 
cap and bells of the court jester were heard in it, and 
the good Toledo blade, so much ridiculed since then, 
thrust and carved all the time. In “ Chatterton” the 
drama is intimate; it is merely the exposition of an 
idea. There are no facts, there is no action, save 
perchance the suicide of the poet which is anticipated 
from the first word, so it was not supposed that the 
work could possibly succeed on the stage; and yet, in 
spite of the previsions of experts, its success was main- 
tained. Youth in those days was intoxicated with art, 
passion, and poetry. All heads were turned, all hearts 
were beating high with boundless emotion, the fate of 
Icarus affrighted no one. ‘ Wings! wings! wings!” 
was the cry heard on all hands; ‘“‘ wings! even if we 
must fall into the sea. To fall from heaven, one must 
have risen there, even were it but for a second, and 
that is nobler than to crawl all one’s life upon earth.” 
Such exaltation may seem absurd to the generation 
which is now as old as we were then, but it was sin- 
cere, and many proved it over whom the grass has 


grown thick and green for many a day. The pit be- 
176 


titebbbbbbbbbebbdbob bbe 
CHATTERTON 


fore which Chatterton declaimed his lines was full of 
wan, long-haired youths, firmly convinced that there 
was no other decent occupation on earth than writing 
verse or painting, — art, as they then said, — and who 
looked down upon the dourgeois with a contempt which 
that of the Heidelberg or Jena students for the Philis- 
tines scarcely approaches. “The bourgeois, — why, they 
included pretty nearly everybody: bankers, stockbrok- 
ers, lawyers, merchants, shop-keepers, and others; 
whoever, in a word, did not form part of the mystic 
circle, but prosaically earned his living. Never did 
such a thirst for glory burn human lips. As for 
money, no one gave it a thought. More than one in 
those days, as in that enumeration of impossible pro- 
fessions which Théodore de Banville relates with such 
irony, — more than one might have exclaimed, with 
perfect truth, “1 am a lyric poet and I live by my pro- 
fession.” Whoever has not lived during that mad, 
hot, over-excited, but generous time cannot imagine to 
what an extent the forgetfulness of material life, the 
intoxication, or, if you will, the infatuation of art car- 
ried obscure and frail victims, who preferred to die of 
it rather than to give up their dream. In vain did men 


hear during the night the report of solitary pistols. 


12 Ly 


the ofe obs abe ole obs obs obs ole obs obs ole che obo ole obs obs obs obs obs obo ofp obs ofp 


CTO VFO CTO CTO OFS UFO UTE Ve OFS oO wTO 


PORT RAS) (O Fi DE ae 


You may judge, then, of the effect produced upon such 
people by the ‘Chatterton ” of Alfred de Vigny, 
which, to be understood, must be replaced in the 
atmosphere of the time at which it was written. 

The noble author, whose personal means always 
kept him free from such troubles, was always greatly 
interested in the fate of poets in our society. He 
developed his views at great length in ‘ Stello, or The 
Consultations of the Black Doctor,” of which ‘¢ Chat- 
terton ” is but an episode worked over for the stage. His 
eager sympathy, his feminine sensibility, his warmth of 
pity make Alfred de Vigny understand and share the 
sufferings of delicate souls, hurt by brutal contact with 
reality. He claims for them life and reverie, —in 
other words, bread and leisure. As one listens to him 
every one agrees with him, so eloquent is he. And 
yet who shall judge whether the poet is truly a poet, 
and whether society ought to maintain him in leisure 
before inspiration has come to him from heaven? Are 
we to believe in the affirmations of pride, the advice of 
critics, or popular renown? For, once he has attained 
renown, the writer no longer needs help. 

I do not think that any one ever lived absolutely 


on poetry save those who died of it. Poetry is not a 


178 


che br cba as oho ake ohooh abe cdoade choco loaf abe beak oof ols 
CHATTERTON 


permanent state of the soul; the god visits the best en- 
dowed men but from time to time; the will has little 
or no action upon it. Alone among art workers, the 
poet cannot be laborious, for his work does not depend 
upon himself. No one,—JI say it without fear of 
being contradicted even by the most illustrious, — no 
one is certain of having finished by evening the poem 
which he began in the morning, even if it contains but 
a few stanzas. He must remain bent over his desk, 
waiting until from the confused swarm of rimes 
one detaches itself and alights on his pen; or else he 
must rise and pursue in woods and streets the thought 
which escapes him. Verse is made of reverie, time, 
and chance, of a tear or a smile, a perfume or a 
remembrance. A stanza, forgotten in a corner of 
the memory like a larva in its cocoon, suddenly wakens 
and flies off with a rustling of wings; its time to bloom 
has come. In the midst of a very different occupation 
or of a serious conversation, invisible lips whisper in 
your ear the word that you lack, and the ode, suspended 
for months, is now finished. How can such work be 
appreciated, and especially how can it be remunerated ? 
The idea of a man exclusively a poet, of a poet living 


on his work, cannot therefore be maintained. Because 


179 


ecb abeck he hb cheb deckch chek de choh oh deck 
PORTRAITS (ORM An Een 


some poems have been highly remunerated, it is not to 
be inferred that their authors could always have paid 
their way with that single resource. It is an accident, 
quite a modern one, due to reasons which it would not 
be difficult to state, and which have no bearing upon ~ 
pure poetry. 

I am aware that Alfred de Vigny does not present 
“‘ Chatterton”? as a generalisation, but as a painful 
exception. [That unhappy youth could never have 
resigned himself to live; even had he never lacked 
for bread, he would have wrapped himself and died 
in his solitary pride. When the curtain, on rising, 
showed us the stage-setting somewhat faded by time, 
with its brown wainscoting, its greenish windows, and 
the wooden stairs, down which poor Kitty Bell falls 
at the close of the play, I looked in vain for Joanny 
upon the Quaker’s chair, and on the other side for poor 
Madame Dorval. Geffroy alone stood in the centre 
of the stage, pale, dressed in black, grown older like 
everybody by some twenty-two years, which is perhaps 
a good deal for the poet who is only eighteen, but pre- 
serving the true spirit of the time, the deep meaning of 
the work, the bitter, romantic, and fatal aspect which 


delighted men in 1835. 


180 


keteetbeotetettetttttteets 
CHAT DER TON 


The first part of the play seemed somewhat cold, 
especially to the spectators of the present generation, 
whose interests are so different from those of the men 
of former days. John Bell, accurate, positive, right- 
eous according to law, with his practical and well-nigh 
irrefutable reasons, formerly excited violent antipathy ; 
he was hated like the melodrama traitor, covered with 
the blackest of crimes; and when, like a commercial 
Bluebeard, he called upon his wife to account for a 
few pounds not entered upon the books, a shudder 
ran through the theatre. People dreaded to see him 
behead the trembling Kitty Bell with the edge of a flat 
ruler. Many a young, romantic woman, with pale 
complexion and long English curls, turned her eyes 
in melancholy fashion upon her husband, the classic 
husband, well fed and rosy, as if to draw attention to 
the parallel Now John Bell, who objects to his 
machines being broken, and who affirms that a man 
is bound to pay by assiduous work for his share of the 
banquet of life or leave the table if he has no money, 
as rigorous to others as he has been to himself, strikes 
us as the one reasonable character in the play. 

The Quaker, notwithstanding his excellent inten- 


tions, talks very childishly, and gives the impression, 


181 


ELLELAELAE AE SSA ttstttss 
PORT RADWS 0 EF ATES pra 


as he sits on his chair, of a patriarch in his dotage. 
Kitty Bell loves chastely the penniless youth who only 
writes verses and walks about with gestures and de- 
claiming verses, who is lean under his thin, worn, 
black coat. Not a woman understands her now, and 
most young girls think her absurd, for the modern 
maiden’s ideal hero alights from a coupé, wears neat 
boots, suéde gloves, has a cigar in his mouth, and in his 
pocket a purse stuffed with bank-notes and gold. In 
1835 it seemed quite natural to fall in love with Chat- 
terton, but how are we to-day to take any interest 
in an individual who has neither capital, income, 
houses nor real estate?—a man who will not even 
accept a position, because, forsooth, he has written 
‘“‘’The Battle of Hastings,” made up of imitations of 
the old Anglo-Saxon chronicles; and especially be- 
cause he is a man of genius? ‘The Lord Mayor and 
the young noblemen in their scarlet coats strike us now 
as very good-natured to take so much trouble about 
that surly maniac, and to keep on seeking him out 
with so much persistency. People do not take so 
much trouble nowadays, and lords do not climb the 
stairs of garrets where poets, nowadays at least, starve 


to death at leisure if such is their good pleasure; for 


182 


bheeeetttettetetttt ttt ttt 
CHATTERTON 


once a man ceases to bea poet, he ought to say so; 
life again becomes possible. 

Nevertheless, the slowly elaborated emotion was at 
last attained, when was seen the bare, cold room, 
scarce lighted by a dying lamp, and into which the 
moon shone through the dirty panes with its white gleam 
and its dead face, the sad and sole companion of an 
agonising soul, the weakening inspirer of unfinished, 
hopeless work. The narrow bed, resembling a coffin 
more than a bed and better fitted for a body than for a 
living frame, on the side of which Chatterton seeks to 
force his virgin thought to sell itself for gold as does a 
courtesan, produced a sinister effect. More than one 
writer in that theatre recognised in it the representa- 
tion, exaggerated no doubt but true at bottom, of his 
own weariness, his own intellectual struggle, his own 
moments of despair. Doubtless it is hard when 
Chimera smiles upon you with her languorously per- 
fidious smile, caresses you with eyes whose strange 
gleams promise love, happiness, and glory, brushes your 
brow with its wings as it flies off into the infinite, 
and lets you familiarly place your hand upon its lion’s 
quarters, — it is hard to let her fly away alone, annoyed 


and contemptuous like a woman whose confession has 


183 


bbe bk bbb bbb bokeh cheba hobeb 
PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


not been understood, and to have thereafter to harness 
one’s self to the heavy drag of a piece of work ordered 
beforehand. But what are you going to do about it? 
Cling to some duty, to some love, to some devotion, 
transform the price paid for that task-work into security, 
comfort, happiness for loved ones, and graciously sac- 
rifice your pride on the altar of domestic life. Well, 
in that case, you will be neither Homer nor Dante nor 
Shakespeare, even had you been one of them if you 
had only written verse. ‘The worst of it is that Pega- 
sus, as may be seen in Schiller’s ballad, is never, even 
when he condescends, a very good horse for the plough. 
He cuts some straight furrows and then he is off, he 
opens his great wings, breaks his traces, or if he can- 
not do so, carries off with him the ploughman and the 
plough, which he may let fall by and by, broken and 
shattered. The truth is that poetry is a fatal gift, a 
sort of curse to him who has received it at his birth. 
A great fortune even does not always prevent a poet 
from being unhappy. Byron’s example is sufficient 
proof of this. 

The close of the play moved the spectators as deeply 
as at the original performances. The purest and most 


violent passion fills it from end to end. Now it is no 


184 


KESAA ALLL LS ptt tttt tte tes 
CHAT? ERTON 


longer a question of literature or poetry. As soon as 
Chatterton has made up his mind to die, he becomes a 
man again and ceases to be an abstraction; the drama 
passes from the brain into the heart; suppressed love 
breaks forth. Death is the third character in this 
supreme interview, and when Chatterton’s lips touch 
the immaculate brow of Kitty Bell, that last kiss tells 
the poor woman that the wretched youth is about to 
die. John Bell may call as loudly as he pleases, the 
timid creature will not reply, but from the threshold of 
the death room will pitch down the stairs and fall upon 
her knees, hiding her innocently guilty head between 
the tear-wet leaves of her Bible. 

The character of Kitty Bell, the angelic Puritan, 
the earthly sister of Eloa, is drawn with almost ideal 
purity. How chaste is her love, how concealed 
and contained her passion, how deep her modesty. 
Scarcely is her secret betrayed by a despairing sob, 
at the last moment. Every one knows that the part 
was one of the greatest successes of Madame Dorval ; 
never perhaps did that superb actress rise so high. 
She played it with timid English grace; she managed 
in most motherly fashion the two babes, pure interme- 


diaries of unconfessed love ; she displayed the sweetest 


185 


SPEELALALALALLAALA LL LALALL ELS 
PORTRAIES: OF “DHE Daa 


feminine charity towards the forsaken youth of genius 
rebelling against fate; she sought with light touch to 
soothe the wounds of his suffering pride. She ad- 
dressed to him the very beating of her heart, the very 
caresses of her soul, in the slow words she spoke to 
him, her eyes cast down, her hands resting on the 
heads of her two dear little ones as if to seek strength 
against herself. And what an agonising cry she 
uttered, what forgetfulness of herself she exhibited 
when she rolled, struck down by grief, down the steps 
which she had climbed with convulsive effort, with 
almost mad jerks, well-nigh on her knees, her feet 
caught in her dress, her arms outstretched, her soul 
projected out of the body which could not follow it! 
Ah! if Chatterton had for the last time opened his 
eyes weighed down by opium and seen that dreadful 
grief, he would have died happy, sure that he had 
been loved as no one ever was, and that he would not 
long await in another world the soul which was kin 


to his own. 


186 


ae 
a) 
“ 
Se 
ae 
Q 
™S,. 
s 
we 
a) 
~ 
™ 
m 
& 
S 
Q 
—< 


L£E¢E¢¢ SEALE ett ttttttettst 


CFO OFS CTE OHO OFS BTS CFO 


ee Win ba gp) Be Ko O-C'iK: 


Born IN 1794—DIED IN 1870 


HERE is nothing new but what has been 
forgotten, and probably no one among the 
younger generation of to-day has any idea 

of the great reputation which Paul de Kock enjoyed 
some thirty or forty years ago. ‘There never was an 
author more popular in the real meaning of the word. 
He was read by everybody, by the statesman as well as 
by the commercial traveller and the schoolboy, by the 
great ladies in society and by the grisettes. He was 
as famous abroad as at home, and Russians studied 
Parisian manners in the pages of his novels. The 
Romanticist school, with its lofty, chivalrous senti- 
ments, its lyrical outbursts, its love for the Middle 
Ages and local colour, its exaggerated idea of passion, 
its wealth of Shakespearean metaphors, caused this 
modest glory to pale and extinguished its beams with 


its own dazzling splendour. 


187 


Kebeeeeeetttttettttetet tet 
PORTRAITS OF “THis tae 


Paul de Kock, to his credit be it said, was a true 
bourgeois, a Philistine of the Marais, utterly devoid of 
feeling for poetry or style. He had never been a 
student, and had not the faintest idea of esthetics; in- 
deed, he would readily have supposed, like Pradon, that 
they were some chemical substance. He was wholly 
devoid of the artistic temperament,— I do not say this 
with any ironical intention; I mean that he possessed 
the gualities which are necessary to a man who is to 
become popular with the masses. Paul de Kock had 
the advantage of being absolutely like his readers. . He 
shared their ideas, their opinions, their prejudices, their 
feelings. He possessed, however, a special gift, that 
of exciting laughter; not the Attic laughter, but the 
loud, coarse laugh, absurdly irresistible, which makes, 
as the saying is, people split their sides. Paul de 
Kock called out that laugh by comic situations in 
doubtful taste, ridiculous, unexpected happenings, gro- 
tesque amusements, the breaking of crockery, the 
splashing of gravy, by kicks and boxes on the ear 
which always went to the wrong person, and other 
unfailing clownish tricks. It is true that his work 
is coarsely done, lacks wit, and is heavy in its out- 


lines; but his fanciful characters, which tumble one 


188 


Veorrrrrr tte rT 


Fo oF ete Cfo whe We Ue wy CHO OFS OES 


PAIU LID. K OC K 


over another like cardboard figures, possess a force 
and truthfulness and a touch of nature which must be 
acknowledged. | 

Now Paul de Kock has become an historical author. 
His works contain the description of manners in a civ- 
ilisation differing as greatly from our own as does that 
the traces of which are found in Pompeii; his novels, 
which people read formerly for amusement’s sake, will 
henceforth be consulted by erudites desirous of recreat- 
ing life in that old Paris which I knew in my youth 
and of which the vestiges will soon have vanished. 

Those who were born after the Revolution of Feb- 
ruary 24, 1848, or shortly before that date, cannot 
understand the Paris in which the heroes and _ heroines 
of Paul de Kock moved, lived, and had their being. 
It was so utterly unlike the present Paris that some- 
times I ask myself, as I gaze upon the broad streets, 
the long boulevards, the vast squares, the endless lines 
of monumental houses, the splendid quarters which 
have been built upon old market-gardens, if that is in- 
deed the city in which my childhood was passed. 

Paris, which is becoming the metropolis of the 
world, was then only the capital of France. French- 


men, and even Parisians, were to be met on its streets. 


189 


tebbbbbbeteeddtetebe tee 


PORT RAYE S Or Ei ype 


Of course, foreigners came to it, as they have always 
done, for pleasure or instruction, but means of commu- 
nication were difficult, the ideal of rapidity did not go 
beyond the classical stage-coach, and the locomotive 
steam-engine was not even visible as a chimera within 
the mists of the future; so that the general appearance 
of the population was not markedly modified. 

The inhabitants of the provinces remained at home 
much more than they do now, they troubled Paris only 
when called to it by urgent business. You could hear 
French spoken on the Boulevard, which was then 
called Boulevard de Gand, and which now bears 
the name of Boulevard des Italiens. You could 
meet frequently with a type which is now becoming 
rare, and which for us is the true Parisian type: fair 
skin, rosy cheeks, brown hair, light-gray eyes, short 
stature, but a good figure, and in women a delicate 
plumpness and small bones. Olive complexions and 
black hair were rare at that time; the South had not 
yet invaded Paris, bringing with it its complexion 
of passionate paleness, its brilliant eyes, and its mad 
gesticulations. The general appearance of faces then 
was rosy and smiling, with a look of health and good- 


humour; the complexions which nowadays are con- 


190 


PAULTDE KOCK 


sidered distinguished would at that time have suggested 
illness. 

The city was, relatively speaking, very small, — that 
is, business was restricted within certain limits beyond 
which people rarely went. The plaster elephant, in 
which Gavroche used to take refuge, then rose gigantic 
behind the Place de la Bastille, and seemed to forbid 
people to walk farther. ‘The Champs-Elysées became, 
as soon as night fell, as dangerous as the plain of 
Marathon; the boldest would stop at the Place de la 
Concorde. The quarter of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette 
then consisted merely of waste ground and fenced- 
in spaces. [he church itself was not built, and 
from the Boulevard could be seen the Hill of Mont- 
martre, with its wind-mills and the long arms of the 
semaphore on the top of the old tower. The Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain went to bed early, and only on 
rare occasions did a student riot, provoked by a play at 
the Odéon, disturb its tranquil solitude. Trips from 
one quarter to another were less frequent. Omnibuses 
were not in existence, and there were marked differ- 
ences in aspect, dress, and accent between the inhabi- 
tants of the Rue du Temple and those of the Rue 
Montmartre. The sewer in the Vieille Rue du Tem- 


IgI 


LELLEAKLELLLESE dhe deck chckck ceckeck oh cee 
PORTRAITS OF (CRED, 


ple was only half covered in; the walls of the boule- 
vard remained along almost its entire length, with streets 
lower down leading out on the site of the old moats. 
Great woodyards, the piles of lumber in which formed 
symmetrical designs, lay at the end of the Rue des 
Filles-du-Calvaire, and farther away, through the blue 
haze in the distance, showed the hill of Ménilmon- 
tant. At this point in the Boulevard rose the res- 
taurant of la Galiotte, which was the scene of 
so many a joyous meal and so many a pleasant 
patty. Farther on,’ at’ the’ corner” of ieee 
Charlot and close to the Turkish Garden, was the 
Cadran Bleu, dear to Paul de Kock and famous for 
its beautiful oyster-woman in her red drugget dress, 
her great pearl oyster-shells in her ears, and her in- 
numerable necklaces. For those were the days of 
beautiful oyster-women, of pretty lemonade vendors, 
of beautiful charcutieres. ‘The Turkish Garden, with 
its Moorish arch, its ostrich-eggs, and its coloured 
windows, gave the impression of the most splendid 
Oriental magnificence, and people entered it with a sort 
of respectful awe, as if they expected to see His 
Highness face to face. On the opposite side of the 
Boulevard rose the theatres in which dramas and pan- 


192 


tomimes were performed, the Café de l’Epi-Scié, the 
sign of which represented a harvester sawing an ear of 
corn, and the mechanical show by M. Pierre, where we 
first learned something of the navy. 

Over all that Boulevard, Paul de Kock reigns as a 
master. He knows all the bourgeois who pass by, as 
well as their wives and their daughters; he knows what 
they are thinking of, and the traditional jokes which 
they will perpetrate this evening while playing at loto ; 
but it does not make him indignant ; he enjoys them, 
he laughs at them heartily. Their courageous stupidity 
is pleasant to him. If these good people arrange to go 
picnicking next Sunday, he will take care to be invited, 
and will bring as his contribution a pasty or a melon. 
While eating dinner on the grass, no one will talk more 
nonsense than he, and no one at dessert will sing a 
more risky song. It is a coarse sort of enjoyment, no 
doubt, due to poor wine and ham, but honest, after all, 
for the whole family is there, and the girls who are 
kissed, and whose gingham dresses, made by themselves, 
are somewhat rumpled, know very well that their 
lovers will ere long become their husbands. 

At that time, there were to be found all around Paris, 


numberless pastoral places, — at least, which appeared 


13 193 


ch ob oe oboe oe eo oe a do frade eee cece coe ae 


CFO GO TO WTO CFO WFO OFS 


PORT RATES YO EGR peas 


pastoral to poor devils who had worked all the week in 
the darkness of a shop; little groves of trees, admirably 
fitted to shade a tavern, fishers’ huts laved by the 
stream, in which a stew of small fry passed muster as 
gudgeon ; arbours of Virginia creeper and hops, which 
at need served an amourous couple, as the cave served 
Aéneas and Dido; Romainville, the Park of Saint- 
Fargeau, the Prés-Saint-Gervais, with their clumps of 
lilac and their fountain, the water of which filled up a 
small stone basin which was reached by a few steps. 
This sort of landscape was sufficient for Paul de Kock, 
who, as a matter of fact, is neither a picturesque 
writer nor a writer of descriptions after the fashion of 
the day. He thought it charming just as it was, and 
the wretched sward, diapered with greasy paper more 
than with daisies, represented the country to him; he 
sketched it in passing as a sort of background to 
his figures ; but at bottom he did not understand much 
of what is now called nature, and in this respect he 
was truly French and truly Parisian. 

But he did not always confine his walks to the 
suburbs, he sometimes went as far as Mentmorenci, 
and then what splendid rides on asses’ back through 


the forest; what shouts, what laughter, and what lucky 


194 


the cbr che che ob abe oh ae ahah oben leche che obec a obo cde abe sale 


ote ef eTe 


Paw DE KOCK 


tumbles on the sward! And what delightful meals of 
brown bread and cherries! True, the participants 
were only clerks and shopgirls, but they were surely 
just as good as the modern dandies and fast women, 
even if one does not care to praise past times at the 
expense of the present, a defect of those who were 
young under the former king. Unquestionably the 
grisettes of Paul de Kock are not as elegant as Alfred 
de Musset’s “Mimi Pinson,” but they are blooming, 
bright, jolly, kind-hearted girls, and as pretty, with 
their percale caps or their light straw hats, as the faces 
covered with rouge and powder for the sake of which 
well-bred young men ruin themselves nowadays. ‘Chey 
earned their own scanty living, careless as the birds 
which perch upon the gutters of the roofs, but their 
love was not for sale and their hearts had first to be 
won. ‘That charming race of girls has vanished, with 
many other good things of old Paris, which now survive 
only in the novels of old Paul de Kock, whose name 
will live long after that of some celebrities of the time, 
for he represents faithfully and with much spirit a 
wholly vanished epoch. How disdainful is the aston- 
ishment with which people now look upon his fast- 


living men who spent ten thousand a year, had a 


se) 


kéebeeeeeteetretettttetetes 


PO'R TRAY SS) O'F DD Aeee 


cabriolet, — in those days there were cabriolets, — drank 
champagne in mad orgies, and kept a ballet dancer of 
the Gaité or the Ambigu-Comique; and how con- 
temptuously, no doubt, people now look upon those 
stag luncheons consisting of a couple of dozen oysters, 
radishes, and fresh-pork cutlets surrounded with green 
slices of cucumber, which the butchers formerly sold 
ready prepared, with, for wine, a bottle or two of 
Chablis; and yet people enjoyed them. But we have 
become more refined nowadays, and such pleasures are 
no longer sufficient for the present generation. In 
order to amuse itself, it has to pay, and to pay very 
dear. It is quite welcome to that. The former some- 
what gross, but very natural joy appears to people 
nowadays bad form. ‘They prefer jokes in slang 
borrowed from the dictionaries, and the epileptic insan- 
ities of the libretto of the Bouffes. 

I the more willingly pay this late tribute to Paul de 
Kock that, when formerly bearing a pennant in the 
Romanticist army, I did not perhaps read his novels 
with the attention they deserved. Besides, the things 
he depicted were then present to us and their meaning 
did not stand out clearly. Nevertheless, I felt there 


was in him a sort of comic power which others lacked. 


196 


check fe oe oe ake de ok eof drab lee oe ode oe checks 
0 8 SG OTe: 


Now he appears to me in a more serious light, I will 
even say a melancholy light, if such a word is appli- 
cable to Paul de Kock. Some of his novels have the 
same effect upon me as Fenimore Cooper’s “ Last of 
the Mohicans”; I seem to read in them the story of 
the last of the Parisians, invaded and submerged by 


American civilisation. 


197 


Portraits of the Day 
decdecbecke che oe ech cbc cbdecdec heehee che debe 


Born 1N 1830 — DIED IN 1870 


O it is divided at last, —that double personality 
S which was familiarly called the Goncourts, for 
no one ever separated one brother from the 

other. “Those who knew intimately these two charm- 
ing souls united in a single pearl, like two drops of 
water that have run together, were haunted by a dis- 
quieting, ever recurring, terrifying thought. It was: 
“Of those two brothers one will die first; the natural 
course of events makes it certain, unless a happy, 
blessed catastrophe strikes them down together at one 
and the sameetime.” But heaven does not often 
bestow such blessings. “The thought gnawed at my 
heart, and I scarce dared to dwell on the dread despair 
which would be the consequence of such a separation. 
The little bit of selfishness which is always to be found 
even in the most disinterested of human friendships 
made me repeat to myself, “I shall never see that day. 


As I am older, I shall have been dead for many a 


198 


che abe che oho be ahah he che abe teck ele a cto tebe cde oh abe 


we re ei 


po ee VIE) GON 6 OWwRT 


& 


year.” But it was not to be so. That day, as the 
funeral hymn says, has come; I was there, and never 
did a sadder sight strike my eyes. Edmond, in his 
tragic grief, seemed like a petrified spectre, and death, 
which usually sets a mark of serene beauty on the face 
which it touches, had been unable to efface from the 
features of Jules, even and regular though they were, 
an expression of bitter grief and of inconsolable regret. 
It seemed as though he had felt at the last moment 
that he had no right to die like any one else, and that 
in doing so he was almost committing fratricide. The 
dead in his bier mourned for the living, unquestionably 
the more to be pitied of the pair. 

I followed at every station of the wia crucis poor 
Edmond, who, blinded by tears and supported by his 
friends, stumbled at every step as if his feet caught in 
his brother’s shroud. Like people condemned to death, 
whose face is strangely altered on the way from the 
prison to the scaffold, Edmond, between Auteuil and 
the cemetery at Montmartre, had grown twenty years 
older, his hair had plainly turned white. This is no 
illusion of mine, several of those present noticed it 
turning whiter and losing its colour the nearer we 


approached the fatal spot and the little low door where 


edb cdedk oh check eh becch ech ecb check ch chek 


ote oe 


POR VRAMHISS OF “VTi Ee Sie 


the last farewell must be spoken. It was lamentable 
and sinister, and never was a funeral procession so 
desolate; every one wept or sobbed convulsively ; and 
yet those who walked behind that bier were philoso- 
phers, artists, writers, tried in grief, lords of their souls, 
masters of their nerves, and ashamed to betray emotion. 

The coffin having been lowered into the narrow 
family vault where but one place is left, and the last 
farewell addressed to the friend who was starting on 
his first march towards that bourne whence no traveller 
returns, one of the relatives led Edmond away and we 
returned to the city in small groups, talking of the dead 
and of the survivor. “Then we parted with a pressure 
of the hand, the firmer that it was inspired by the 
thought that it was perhaps the last one. 

And now I must speak of the writer, though I have 
scarcely strength to do so. ‘That worn face of the 
brother, which seemed lighted by a light from the other 
world, and looked, under the brilliant sunshine, like 
moonlight in broad day, rises before me like a real 
phantom, and I cannot put it aside. Since their 
mother’s death, which happened in 1848, they had 
never been apart for an hour, and they had so thor- 


oughly got into the habit of this common life that it 


~ 


che cde ote cba obe he eo oe abe be cbe cbr obecbe cba obecbe label of foots 


ore ame ote oTe 


oles be GO N COURT 


was a great event to see one of the Goncourts alone; 
the other was certainly not very far off. 

Yet they were not twins. There was an interval of 
ten years between Edmond and Jules. The elder was 
dark, the younger fair, the elder taller than the other; 
their faces even were not alike; but one felt that a 
single soul dwelt in these two bodies; they were one 
person in two volumes. The moral likeness was so 
great that it made one forget physical unlikeness. 
How often I have mistaken Jules for Edmond, and 
continued with the one brother a conversation I had 
begun with the other! ‘There was nothing to warn 
you that the person you were speaking to was different. 
Whichever of the two brothers happened to be there 
took up, without the least hesitation, the talk at the 
point where the other had left it. “They had sacrificed 
their personality to each other and formed but a single 
one, which was called “the Goncourts ” by friends, 
and “the Messieurs Goncourt”’ by those who did not 
know them. All their letters. were signed ‘“ Edmond 
and Jules.” During the ten years that I was in- 
timately acquainted with them, I have received but a 
single note which was not signed by this sweet firm- 


name ; — it is the one in which the unhappy survivor 


ZO 


shocks ecb de che oe oh ch cbecteckecfecdecde dead ocak dhe dock 


ons 


PORTRAIYS) -OF (HEA paws 


told me, from the depths of his despair, of the death of 
his beloved brother. How much that widowed signa- 
ture, testifying to his eternal loss, must have cost his 
trembling hand! 

Although it is very difficult to believe it of literary 
men, yet nevertheless it is true that they had but one 
self-love. They never betrayed the secret of their 
partnership in labour; neither of them tried to obtain 
the glory for himself, and that single work produced by 
two brains still remains a mystery which no one has 
penetrated. I myself, their friend, who am trying here 
under these sad circumstances to say what was the 
dead man’s share,—cannot do it; and besides, it 
seems to me almost impious to endeavour to separate 
what these two souls, one of which has now flown 
away, wished to unite indissolubly. Why should we 
untie this well plaited tress, the many-coloured threads 
of which are tressed in and out at regular intervals 
without knowing whence they came? I should fear 
to wound the brotherly delicacy which desired but a 
single reputation for the work done by the pair in 
common. 

As I have already said, Jules de Goncourt was the 


younger of the two brothers. He was scarcely thirty- 


2OZ 


che abe abs ab oe ae ah abe abe ole abe obras obs abe ol ole ob alr eblr be ole ele ele 


Ue Vie Vie oie Cie ale CO whe She whe vie oe who aie ese ee oe eve 


PUES + DE, GON COURT 


four, and he appeared younger still, thanks to his fair 
complexion, to his silky, golden hair, and the light, 
pale, golden moustache which showed on the corners 
of his richly coloured lips. He was always carefully 
shaved and correctly dressed like a gentleman. Ener- 
getic black eyes marked his fine, sweet face. Gener- 
ally he was brighter and gayer than his brother; the 
one was the smile of the other, but you had to know 
both very well to notice this slight difference. They 
never took each other’s arm when walking; the 
younger preceded his brother by a few steps with a sort 
of juvenile petulance to which the elder gently yielded. 
Edmond had been the literary initiator of Jules, but all 
difference of style between himself and his pupil had 
long since disappeared. They thought and worked 
together, according to a plan which was no doubt set- 
tled beforehand, handing to each other across the table 
what they had written and summing it up in a final 
version. ‘They were curious, refined men, with a hor- 
ror of the commonplace and of ready-made phrases. 
To avoid the common they would have gone to excess, 
even to paroxysm, even to the length of making their 
expressions burst like soap bubbles over-filled with air. 


But then, how carefully they polished their style! 


203 : 


ale obs be oe oy ce le che oh chy abe che oby oe abe alle abn obs oben alle abe bool 


Fe oFe UFO OTS 


PORTRATYS’ OF UT tae 


How exquisitely refined it was! what a delicate and 
novel choice of words! When they wrote history, 
they were not satisfied with the documents which were 
to be easily found, printed in books; they referred to 
original documents, to autographs, to unknown pamph- 
lets, to secret memoirs, to paintings, engravings, fash- 
ion plates, to whatever might reveal a characteristic 
detail and revive the appearance of the times. Yet 
they were not novelists eager to load their palette with 
local colour. These two fashionable Benedictines 
worked in their dainty apartments of the rue Saint- 
George, filled with pretty bric-a-brac of the eighteenth 
century, as seriously as if they had been shut up 
within a monastery. They were scrupulously accu- 
rate. Every peculiarity which they mention is backed 
up by authentic proof. The masters of history and 
criticism, Michelet and Sainte-Beuve, quote them as 
authorities on everything that concerned the reign of 
Louis XVI, the Revolution, and the Directory, which 
they know thoroughly and every detail of which they 
are acquainted with. In the novel they attempted to 
reproduce, with implacable minuteness and clear-sighted- 
ness, reality, which they stretched out upon their table 


like an anatomical subject, with a pen as sharp as a dis- 


204 


REAEALE ALLA LLL SAS ALL ALALAALA ALLS 
PULES (DEVGON COURT 


secting-knife. It suffices to name “Sister Philoméne,”’ 
“ Germinie Lacerteux,”’ “ Manette Salomon,” “ Renée 


>> 


Mauperin,” in which occurs that new and living type 
of the noisy young girl, and their last work, “« Madam 
Gervaisais,” in which the study of a soul slowly ab- 
sorbed by Catholicism is mingled with magnificent 
descriptions of Rome, wrought out like the etchings of 
Piranesi. | With audacious originality they also -tried 
their hand at drama. ‘* Henriette Maréchal ” failed to 
please Master Briar-pipe, the student in his twentieth 
year, which is a pity, for that undeserved check turned 
away from the stage two vocations which gave good 
promise. Besides these works the Goncourts produced 
interesting studies on Watteau, Chardin, Fragonard, 
Saint-Aubin, Gravelot, Eisen, and all the lesser masters 
of the eighteenth century, whom they knew so well, 
accompanied by plates which Jules engraved in aqua 
fortis. It is impossible to reproduce better the charac- 
ter of the art of an epoch unjustly disdained. ‘They 
understood equally well the art of Japan, so true and 
so fanciful, so fertile in its invention of monstrosities, 
sO astonishingly natural, and they wrote upon it with 
exquisite fancy. Let me not forget a book called 


““Tdeas and Sensations,” which gives the lyric and 


205 


dhe obe oak oh chee eae acteclecfe cece chase cade oe cele 


ope eve ove eoTe 


PORTRAITS (0 Ff COME pea 


dreamy side of their talent, and which takes the place, 
in their work, of the volume of verse which they did 
not write. It abounds in charming bits, it is full of 
wit, it is deep at times, and has descriptive passages of 
the greatest novelty. Did I not fear that my meaning 
would be misinterpreted, I would say that it contains 
exquisite symphonies of words. Words! Joubert 
estimates them at their real value, and compares them 
to precious stones which are set within the verse like 
diamonds in gold. They have their own beauty, 
known to poets and delicate artists alone. 

When an author is spoken of, the titles of his books 
come up in a mass and take up all the room. But 
what did Jules die of? I shall be asked. He died of 
his profession, as we shall all die; he died of perpetual 
tension of the mind, of effort without rest, of struggle 
with difficulties created at will; of the fatigue of roll- 
ing that rock called the phrase, which is heavier than 
that of Sisyphus. “To anaemia add nervousness, that 
wholly modern malady which comes from the overex- 
citement of civilised life, and which medicine is power- 
less to relieve, for it cannot reach the soul. You 
become irritable, the least noise worries you; you seek, 


but too late, silent repose in the shady woods; you fit 


206 


the eo oe oh oh de ob oh oh chcheak dhecdo echoed eo ob abe 
ues. DBe GON CO URE 


up a house. ‘Ihe house finished, death enters,” as 
the Turkish proverb says. Is that all? No, perhaps 
there was behind all this some secret grief. Jules de 
Goncourt, appreciated, praised, lauded by the masters 
of the intellect, lacked — what? The praise of fools. 
The vulgar is despised and kept at a distance, but if it 
accepts the sentence and stays away, the proudest 


natures grieve and pine away. 


207 


E has been but recently admitted to the 
H Academy ; by rights, he should have been 
elected to it twenty years ago. 

The man who since 1830 has every week put his 
initials, “J. J..’ in the corner of the ‘Journal des 
Débats owes to the feuilleton the best part of his 
glory, and for the first time a feuz/leton writer sits down 
in the Academic arm-chair. Who is amazed and de- 
lighted at such an honour? It is J. J. For he is 
modest, and the little green embroidery upon his coat 
fulfils all his desires, — hoc erat in votis, shall I say, in 
one of those Latin quotations which he is so fond of? 
It is the legitimate and touching ambition of a writer 
to whom literature has always been an end, and not 
a means of reaching something else. He has fully 
deserved the palm branches on his sleeves and his 
collar ; he was kept waiting for them too long, but at 
last he has them and we congratulate him upon the 


fact. When a man is neither a prince nor a duke, a 


208 


che cto obs che obs he hecho dhe ob de dede bebe ch ohooh chobeah he ohooh 
JULES JANIN 


bishop nor a monk, a minister, a great lawyer, or a 
politician, not even a man of the world, but simply 
a literary man, it is as difficult for him to enter the 
French Academy as for a camel to pass through the 
eye of a needle. 

At last the feuzlleton writer is installed under the 
cupola of the Mazarin palace. For my part, I am 
glad of it, for it is a victory and a triumph of which 
the Monday brethren have a right to be proud. ‘It is 
not every one who can paint like Boucher,” used to 
say David, that severe painter, on hearing that facile 
artist run down by impotent disdain. Writing feuz/le- 
tons is not much, —that is easily said, and thereupon 
the speaker shakes his head with a lofty air. But I 
should like to see attempt it —not for life, di talem 
avertite casum! five years would be enough— the 
grave, the serious, the difficult, the sober, the solemn, 
the learned, all the makers of compact weariness, the 
ornaments of reviews which one would rather admire 
than read; the fruitless ones who glory in their sterility 
and call their retention of style merit. 

Of course it is easy to write a dramatic article, to 
improvise every week four or five hundred lines upon 


the most diverse and unexpected subjects ; and brilliant 


14 209 


1 ESS ET IE a 


the che a tac che choke ch abe dr cboclcfecte cba cre cheat eae boob 


PORT RAIZAGS: O'}8F) Tr hae ee 


lines full of images, with endless wit scattered through 
them, such as a critic advised a gentleman to put into 
his somewhat weak fifth act; lines rapid in their cor- 
rection and sure in their impetuous flow, full of those 
happy hits which are not to be found again by looking 
for them, by turns ironical and enthusiastic, mingling 
with the thought of others the fancy of the individual 
writer! To do this sort of work well, a man must be 
possessed. And therefore in this age, which abounds 
in poets, historians, novelists, and dramatists, great 
writers of articles are much rarer. I can count up 
as many as three. 

Now that sort of article was invented by Janin. 
Before him Geoffroy, Hoffmann, Duviquet, Becquet, 
who were clever, erudite men no doubt, wrote dramatic 
notices in which the good and the bad features of 
a play were carefully noted and which resembled 
corrected themes. These comments were written 
in a cold, colourless, clear style, as transparent as 
filtered water in a crystal carafe, which the French 
naturally prefer to the rich, blazing, varied colours of 
gems and stained glass. A young fellow with curly 
black hair, plump, rosy cheeks, red lips, bright smile, 


came to Paris from the Provinces and changed all that 


210 


tho obs fe aha he he he oho he ecto cto ete abe che cba che chee oh bees 
JULES JANIN 


with his intoxicating ardour, his joyous audacity, his 
high spirits which showed on the least pretext in 
bright smiles and sonorous laughter, his ever ready 
facility, his inexhaustible abundance, and a really new 
way of writing in which every word was equivalent to 
his signature. 

Thus did he appear, healthy, happy, among the 
yallery-greenery, elegiacal, Byronic chorus of the Ro- 
manticists,— an original and jolly face, genuinely 
French. No doubt he was a Romanticist, like all 
the youth of that day, but in his own way, without 
belonging to any set, with a shade of undisciplined 
irony which questions while it admires. He may have 
preferred Diderot to Shakespeare, and he may have 
read more willingly “ Rameau’s Nephew” than “ As 
You Like It,” or “ The Tempest,’ or “ A Midsum- 
mer Night’s Dream.” He was satisfied with the 
eighteenth century, while we went back to the six- 
teenth, kneeling before Ronsard and the poets of the 
Pleiad. The love of Latin, already so greatly devel- 
oped in him, seems to have preserved him from the 
enthusiasm excited by exotic literatures. He bowed 
as he passed the foreign gods, whom he perhaps con- 


sidered somewhat barbaric, as the Athenians did what- 


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ever was not Greek ; but his devotion to the imported 
altars was never very fervent. 

Like most of us at that precocious time of early 
maturity, he possessed his talent forthwith and his 
first attempts were master-strokes. Now that we are 
accustomed to that perpetual wonder, it is impossible 
to imagine the effect produced at that time by his 
thoroughly new, youthful, dainty style, charming in its 
harmony, incomparable in its freshness of tone, with 
the velvet bloom of a pastel, set off by a small patch, 
with its swarm of light-winged phrases fluttering here 
and there as if at haphazard under their gauze drapery, 
but always finding their way and bringing back flowers 
which of themselves formed a dazzling bouquet studded 
with diamonds of dew and shedding the sweetest 
perfumes. 

““Where is he going to?” people asked with the 
uneasiness so speedily dispelled, called out by cleverly 
performed feats of strength, when at the beginning of 
an article he started from a melodrama or a vaudeville 
in pursuit of a paradox, a fancy, or a dream, interrupt- 
ing himself to relate an anecdote, to run after a butter. 
fly, leaving his subject and returning to it, opening in a 


parenthesis an outlook upon a smiling landscape or a 


212 


bbb bbb bbb obebed bebe 
JULES JANIN 


glimpse of bluish lane ending in a jet of water or 
a statue, enjoying himself like a street boy who sets 
off crackers between the reader’s legs, and laughing 
heartily at the involuntary jump caused by the explo- 
sion. But as he goes strolling along in this way he 
meets at the corner of a path the idea, which was 
wandering along, he looks at it, finds it fair, noble, 
chaste, he falls in love with it in a second, gets excited, 
warm, eloquent, and passionate ; he becomes serious, 
eloquent, and convinced; he defends with tyrical, hon- 
est indignation, beauty, goodness, truth, that moral 
trinity, which counts to-day nearly as many unbelievers 
as the theological Trinity. He is a sage, a philoso- 
pher, almost a preacher. And the forgotten play? He 
remembers it somewhat late, when he finds that he has 
got to the end of the tenth column of his article and 
that presently the portico will be completed; so ina 
few sharp, quick, telling words he gives the subject of 
the drama or the comedy, he states its defects and its 
qualities, approves or disapproves its tendencies with 
that common-sense of his which is scarcely ever mis- 
taken, in his feeling for the stage transformed by years 
into infallible experience. He has even had time to 


review the actors, to flatter or scold them, or at least 


213 
2 EES ES Le Ok ee EOE 


ALELLALLAELLALALLALELAL ELS 


we oe whe 


PORT RAIDS: OF) al. Hie 


to call them by their names like a general who rides 
down the line of battle. So “the prince of the 
critics”? was at that time and is still a current expres- 
sion understood by every one as meaning Jules Janin, 
just as “our most fertile novelist” means Balzac. 

You will readily believe that a style with so charac- 
teristic a swing, so peculiar a savour, so marked a 
manner, was frequently imitated — but no one imitated 
it so well as Janin himself. 

I have dwelt on the new academician’s talent as a 
writer of newspaper articles; it is that side of him 
which the public knows most of and that in which he 
shows himself oftenest at that Monday balcony whence 
the writer bows to his readers; but J. J. (who now 
becomes Jules Janin in full and will hereafter add the 
regulation words “of the French Academy”) has 
written quite a number of very good books: ‘ The 
Dead Ass and the Beheaded Wife,’ —one of those 
youthful sins which a man ought not to disavow later 
under pretext of wisdom and taste, for it is these which 
make you known and make you famous; “ Barnave,” 
in which there are so many splendid passages; ‘ The 
Pedestal,” a bold subject brilliantly carried out; 


‘¢ Clarissa Harlowe,” drawn from her dull setting and 


214 


keeeeetetttottttttbtbboe 
JULES JANIN 


restored with pious care; ‘The End of a World,” 
which is the continuation and the conclusion of 
“ Rameau’s Nephew”; “The Nun of Toulouse,” 
and many other books well written and well printed, 
worthy in every respect to be placed in the Passy 
chalet on the shelves of the select library by the side of 
the princeps editions of the great authors splendidly 
bound by Bauzonnet, Capet, Petit, and the other 
masters of the art, the pride and happiness of the 
scholar who lives in the midst of these riches, which 
he is not satisfied with looking at, but which he reads, 
studies, and the very marrow of which he assimilates. 

That is readily seen in his style. 

Janin’s speech on the great writer (Sainte-Beuve) 
whose place he took in the Academy has been pub- 
lished by the papers, and the dramatic critic did full 
justice to the critic of books. He told us of his 
marvellous success, of his depth of intuition, of his 
subtlety, of his patience as an investigator, of his gift 
of understanding everything, feeling everything, of 
entering into the most opposite natures, living their 
life, thinking their thoughts, descending into their 
most secret parts, a golden lamp in his hand, and of 


passing like the Hindoo gods through a_ perpetual 


215 


che abe abe abe oe te he he oe che bet abe oe che che oe obec he doe 


we 


PORT RAT'S ° Ocky TUB eae 


series of incarnations and avatars. He suitably lauded 
that curiosity constantly awake, never satisfied, which 
thought it knew nothing if it had allowed the least 
detail to escape. Homo duplex, man is double, said 
the philosopher. As far as Sainte-Beuve is concerned, 
he is even triple, and desiring to complete the portrait 
which all believed to be finished, he asked for new 
sittings from the model, sought more information, 
ferreted out, found out, and only passed to another 
when the resemblance of the picture placed upon the 
easel left nothing more to be desired. 

Certainly, if anything from this world reaches the 
other, Sainte-Beuve must have been happy at hearing 
himself praised thus. Perhaps he may have thought 
that because the critic was so highly lauded, the poet 
was somewhat too lightly spoken of. ‘That was his 
only and secret self-love; — Sainte-Beuve almost re- 
gretted that his second reputation, so vast, so deserved, 
so universally accepted, should have masked, as it 
were, or eclipsed the first. «The poet, who died young 
while the man survived,” still existed for him, ever 
young and living, and he loved people to allude to 
him and to ask for him; it was with real pleasure that 


he recited to his intimate friends, without much press- 


216 


TUL ES yANIN: 


ing, some fragments of a mysterious elegy, some 
languorous love sonnet, which had not found a place 
in one of his three volumes of verse. A word or two 
about ‘Joseph Delorme,” or ‘ Consolations,’ and 
especially “* Thoughts in August’’ caused him greater 
joy than manifold praise of his last ‘Causerie du 
lundi”; for he had indeed been an inventor in poetry, 
he had struck a new and wholly modern note, and of 
all his set he was assuredly the most romantic. In the 
humble poetry, which by the sincerity of feeling and 
the minuteness of detail copied from nature recalls 
the verse of Crabbe, Wordsworth and Cowper, Sainte- 
Beuve traced out for himself little footpaths half-way 
up the hill, bordered with common little lowers, where 
no one in France had passed before him. His com- 
position is somewhat laborious and complex, owing to 
the difficulty he experienced in reducing to metrical 
form ideas and images yet unexpressed or hitherto dis- 
dained. But how many admirable, inspired passages, in 
which no effort is felt! What intense, subtle charm ! 
What an intimate penetration of the weariness of the 
soul! What a divination of unconfessed desires and 
obscure supplications! Sainte-Beuve as a poet would 


easily form the subject of a long and interesting study. 


217 


TONY JOHANNOT 


Born IN 1803—Diep In 1852 


LTHOUGH Tony Johannot was a news- 

A paper man through his illustrations, he did 

not attract, as he deserved to do, the atten- 

tion of contemporary critics, because newspapers talk 

about everything except newspaper men. ‘Tony 

Johannot sketched his articles in pencil; that was the 
only difference. 

The admiration felt in France for soporific talents 
is the reason why until now justice has not been done 
to him. As people glance at one of his numberless 
drawings, they remark, “It is very pretty,” and pass 
on. If he had painted some huge daub full of wooden 
figures on cardboard horses, he might have been elected 
to the Institute and would have enjoyed the considera- 
tion which takes the shape of crosses, of offices and 
dignities. Nothing is so hurtful to a man as grace, 
wit, and facility. “he average individual who sees a 


clever man produce rapidly a pretty thing, thinks he 


218 


Keteet¢ttreettttettttetttes 


CFO CFS OFS oFO 


TONY [OHANNOT 


has been done out of his money; so clever men, shut 
themselves up in their den, even if they simply intend 
to go to sleep, put a lighted lamp near the window, 
and affirm that they have spent three months in pro- 
ducing a work which they really dashed off in three 
days. Tony Johannot had to bear the consequences 
of having published in the course of fifteen years, 
without making any fuss and merely when asked by 
publishers, a vast number of delightful sketches which, 
though they were dashed off, were none the less 
finished work and which many painters of great pre- 
tensions would have found it difficult to equal. This 
enormous quantity of work, scattered in more than a 
thousand volumes, can sustain comparison with the 
works of Cochin, Gravelot, Eisen, Moreau, Saint-Non, 
and the cleverest sketchers of previous centuries. 

At all times books have been more or less richly 
illustrated. “The illuminators and miniaturists of the 
Middle Ages covered the margins of missals and 
romances of chivalry with marvellous arabesques in 
which fantastic birds mingled with ideal flowers in a 
maze of curves fit to drive the most patient copyist to 
despair. The capital letters formed frames for small 


episodical scenes, and in the most important places 


219 


ee ee I 
PORTRAPDTS (OF THE aoe 


were inserted vignettes in which ultramarine and gold 
rival each other in brilliancy and beauty. Printing 
was the death of caligraphy, engraving suppressed the 
illuminator and miniaturist, but the custom of illus- 
trating valuable books and of translating a page into a 
drawing remained. 

This kind of work, in which the pencil intensifies 
the stroke of the pen, calls for a particular kind of 
talent. The artist must understand the poet, and be 
himself, so to speak, a literary man. It is not a ques- 
tion of transferring nature directly to the canvas, of 
copying reality as it is seen, — for in art there are in- 
numerable forms of reality, of seizing the play of 
light and shade, of reproducing the attitude of the 
head which you like, of the smile which charms you; 
that is the painter’s business. “The book illustrator — 
we may be allowed this neologism, which has almost 
ceased to be one — must see only with another’s eyes. 
He loves dark women with arched eyebrows, blue- 
black hair, clean, Syracusan profiles; his author’s hero- 
ine is a regular German moonbeam, showing silvery 
amid falling hair. He has never seen the luxurious 
vegetation of the tropics, the palms, the rose-apples, 


the frangipanes, though he knows thoroughly the hedges 


220 


tkeeebheteeettetebttbdbdb ttt 
TONY JOHANNOT 


of hawthorn, the brooks purling under the water cress, 
the hut hidden between the walnut trees — but it is 
‘¢ Paul and Virginia” which he has to illustrate ; never 
mind, he will make a masterpiece of it. 

Like the newspaper man, the illustrator must always 
be ready for anything. Which of us knows what he 
will write about to-morrow? In one and the same 
article, chance may take us from Russia to Egypt, 
from the hoariest antiquity to the most living actuality ; 
every minute we have to overleap two thousand years 
or two thousand leagues ; every period, every country, 
every style must be known. ‘That is a difficulty which 
is not thought of and which is tremendous. ‘To accept 
a subject or to choose it for yourself are two very 
different things. Much adaptability, much intelligence, 
.much readiness of mind, much quickness of hand are 
needed for such difficult work. Tony Johannot is un- 
questionably the prince of illustrators. Some years ago 
no novel or poem could be published without a wood- 
cut signed with his name. How many slim-waisted, 
swan-necked, long-locked, small-footed heroines he has 
drawn on Japan paper! How many a ragged tramp, 
how many a knight armed cap-a-pie, how many a 


scaly, many-clawed monster he has scattered upon the 


221 


che he oe oho obs ae alle al ol aby obs bo oeo as oleae ab el ol ae oe ola 


PORTRADES OF DHE toe 


yellow covers of medizval novels! He has handled 
all the verse and all the literature of ancient and mod- 
ern times: the Bible, Moliére, Cervantes, Walter Scott, 
Byron, Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, Goethe, Chateau- 
briand, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, — he has treated 
every one of them. His drawings appeared in these 
wondrous books and no one thought them out of place. 
By the side of these sublime pages, of these harmonious 
verses, they formed an ornament and not a blot. What 
so many different geniuses dreamed, he succeeded in 
rendering and transporting it into his own art. Assur- 
edly that is a glory worth many another, to have put his 
name into all these books, the honour of humankind. 
Ary Scheffer, though he never made any vignettes, may 
be considered as the type of the literary artist, whose 
genius is excited by the art of a poem. What are 
‘¢ Marguerite Spinning,” ‘ Marguerite at Church,” 
the two ‘ Mignons,”? ‘ Medora,” “The Giaour,” 
“The King)of “Thule,” ‘s,Eberhard, \the Wiener 
but splendid illustrations? If Scheffer had met the 
real Marguerite in the street, he would doubtless have 
been less struck with her than with Goethe’s Marguerite 
whom he met in a scene in “ Faust.” Highly de- 


veloped civilisation, the fusion of the various arts, the 


222, 


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TONY JOHANN OT 


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habit of living among the creations of the mind, have 
the effect on certain peculiar minds of making them see 
nature at last only through the masterpieces of men. 

No doubt thorough-bred painters, who need but a 
contour to excite them and who discover a painting in 
an attitude, in the fall of a fold, are to be preferred ; 
but there is to me a wondrous charm in these delicate 
flowers which have bloomed in the hot-house of another 
art. ‘Their tints are of a lovely pallor, they have soft 
shades penetrated, as it were, by a mysterious light ; 
under the colours of the painter, you hear the murmur 
of the poet’s strophes. “These hybrid creations have a 
peculiar attraction for refined minds. 

What Ary Scheffer realised in a sphere serene and 
apart, Tony Johannot accomplished within the condi- 
tions of modern industry which constantly — and that 
is the greatest praise which can be given it — has need 
of the arts; and he did it amid all the tumult and all 
the chances of publication. He despised nothing, not 
even the heading of a page, an ornamental letter, or 
a poster; he lent his swift, clever pencil, his com- 
positions, ever intelligent and fine, to all men, poets, 
historians, novelists, or writers of picturesque works. 

One needs to know, as I do, how little is left of a 


a28 


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cde abe obs ob cle obs able ob abs obs abe crab che cb of abr abe abe cb ol of anole 
PORTRATTS*' OF: VP htihebpe 


drawing engraved on wood, then electrotyped and 
printed with thick ink, to admire Johannot as he de- 
serves to be admired. ‘The engraver merits, as much 
as the translator, the epithet ¢radittore. 

Weary of seeing his delicate work made heavy by 
coarse or careless engravers, Tony Johannot ended in 
refusing to trust any one but himself. He remembered 
that he also had once handled the graver, and turning 
to account the publication of a beautiful work which a 
publisher of taste desired to bring out, he himself 
etched a series of exquisite illustrations for Goethe’s 
‘¢ Werther,” translated by Pierre Leroux and with a 
preface by George Sand. 

Tony Johannot, the improvising artist, supplies with 
Gavarni the illustrations called for by Paris. Only, 
there is between Tony Johannot and Gavarni this 
difference, that the former does his best work in books, 
while Gavarni prefers to choose his own subject. 
Gavarni’s types belong to him more completely, but he 
lacks Johannot’s skill in translating the thought of 
others. Johannot is more of a poet, Gavarni more of 
a philosopher; the one understands and the other sees; 
but those two, such as they are, have no rivals in the 


art which they follow. 


224 


Copyright, 1901, by George D. Sproul 


Roger delivering Angelica. By Ingres 


chee oe hee oe oe abe oe che cece cde he ooo ee obec obese 

gases Of. the ay 

the ooh ohooh he he a abe abe cheese obec obec taeda ceo oboe 
INGRES 


Born IN 1781 — DIED IN 1867 


N artist’s life is in his work, especially nowa- 
A days when the development of civilisation 
has diminished the number of eventful lives 

and almost destroyed the chance of personal adventure. 
The biographies of most of the great masters of past ages 
contain a legend, a romance, or, at all events, a story. 
Those of the famous painters and sculptors of our day 
may be summed up in a few lines: struggle in obscurity, 
work in shadow, suffering bravely borne, a reputation 
denied at first, later acknowledged, recompensed more 
or less sufficiently, great orders, the cross of the Legion 
of Honour, election to the Institute. Aside from a few 
victims who fall before the hour of triumph and who 
are ever to be regretted, such is, save for a small num- 
ber of special details, the usual substance of modern 
biographies. But if facts have small place in them, on 
the other hand, ideas and characters take up much room; 


the works make up for the incidents which are lacking. 


15 225 


Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres was born at Mon- 
tauban in 1781, so he is seventy-six to-day. Never 
was there a greener old age or one that weighed less 
upon the man, and we may safely venture to promise 
that the illustrious master will live as long as Titian 
and even longer. 

There is a portrait of Ingres painted by himself, in 
1804. He has represented himself standing in front 
of his easel with the end of his cloak thrown over his 
shoulder. In his right hand he holds a white pencil, 
his left rests on his breast ; the head, in three quarters, 
faces you. ‘The painter seems to be calling up his 
faith and his will before beginning his work. ‘The 
features, in spite of their youth (the artist was then 
twenty-four), are strongly marked. The hair, of a 
deep black, is parted on the brow and curls freely and 
strongly ; the brown eyes are of an almost wild bril- 
liancy, the lips are a rich red, and the complexion, 
tanned by internal fires, recalls the amber, tawny tone 
which Giorgione was so fond of; the turned-down 
shirt-collar sets off by its broad white tint the warm 
flesh tones. ‘The background is of that neutral tone 
with which studio walls are painted. 


The portrait shows remarkable virility ; it is full of 


226 


> 


SO VFO GO VTS WTS 


INGRES 


che te be hohe de be he che cde cbecbe ecbe ch bach debe cl abe check 


the vigorous life of youth, held in by the will. The 
master shows behind the student. “Those who accuse 
Ingres of being cold have certainly not seen that quick, 
strong, determined face which seems to follow you 
with its dark, steady, deep glance. It is one of those 
troublesome portraits with which you can never be 
alone in the room where they hang, for a soul watches 
you through the dark eyes. 

I am very fond of looking at the portraits of illustri- 
ous masters painted at the outset of their career, before 
glory has settled upon their dreamy brow. Such por- 
traits are rare. It is not until men have grown older 
and become famous that people bethink themselves of 
multiplying their likeness. 

The artist has fulfilled every promise held out by 
this particular portrait, — ardent faith, undaunted cour- 
age, invincible perseverance. In the clean lines, in 
the strongly marked flats, in the strong build of the 
man shows an obstinate genius which may even be 
called hard-headed. Has it not been said that genius 
is infinite patience? The motto of such a man seems 
to be, Etiam si omnes ego non; and in truth nothing, 
neither classical pedantry nor Romanticist riotousness, 


have succeeded in turning away from the worship of 


227 


che che oe abe he ce che abe che abe te tect tebe echo cfe che ofe oe oh sheets 
PORTRAIAS (OR THE pate 


pure beauty that enthusiastic artist, who was so long a 
solitary, who preferred to await reputation rather than 
acquire it hastily by conforming to popular ideas. 
At a time when men doubted, hesitated, idled, he 
proved to be a believer who never wavered for a 
second. Nature, Phidias, and Raphael were to him a 

sort of trinity of art, the Ideal of which was the unity. 
If a monk’s cowl replaced the cloak, the painting 
would show a young Italian monk of the Middle Ages, 
one of those who became cardinals or popes; for they 
possessed the power of following out a single idea their 
life long. 

Now let us look at the portrait of the great master 
full of years and honours, who reigned despotically 
over a school of enthusiastic followers, worshipped 
and feared like a god. ‘The hair, which as yet shows 
but a slight touch of white, is still parted in the centre 
in honour of the divine Sanzio, a sort of mysterious 
token by which the devotee consecrates himself to his 
ideal. A few wrinkles have slightly furrowed the 
brow, a few veins show upon the broader temples ; 
compact, solid flesh broadens the original form and 
marks strongly the outlines shown in the earlier 


portrait. [he mouth is sadder-looking, with two or 


228 


three morose wrinkles at the corners, but the eye 
preserves its immortal youth and still gazes upon the 
same end, the Beautiful. Instead of the modern over- 
coat, place on that figure a Roman mantle, and the 
head, with its strong lines, and its vigorous colour 
modified, not destroyed by age, could figure among 
the Roman prelates assembled in conclave, or in a 
ceremony in the Sistine Chapel. If I insist upon 
this point, it is because the worship of art, of which 
he was the most fervent priest, imparted to Ingres 
a positively pontifical aspect. During his whole life 
he carried the sacred Ark and bore the tables of 
the Law. 

The biographies of artists begin usually with a nar- 
ration of the obstacles placed in the way of an un- 
doubted vocation by the members of the family. The 
father, who wants his son to be a notary, a doctor, 
or a barrister, burns the poems, tears up the drawings, 
hides the brushes. In Ingres’ case, wonderful to re- 
late, there were no difficulties of this sort. The son’s 
intentions agreed with the father’s wishes; the child 
was given paper, red pencils, and a portfolio of engrav- 
ings to copy; he also learned music on the violin. 


Painter or musician, whichever it might be, such a 


229 


Seb cbdb ck ch deck hb bbchcbchchcheche debe dhe dk 


ore CTO ete OTe wpe GH 


PORTRATDEDSHORP Dat pe 


career in no wise terrified his excellent father. The 
phenomenon is explained by the fact that the latter 
was himself a musician and a painter. Young Ingres 
was sent to the studio of M. Roque, of Toulouse, a 
pupil of Vien; but the thing which decided his fate 
was the sight of a copy of the “¢‘ Madonna della Sedia”’ 
brought from Italy, rather than his master’s teach- 
ing. ‘The impression this picture made on him was 
ineffaceable; even now, when he is over sixty, it still 
rules his life. 

A few years later he came to Paris and entered 
David’s studio. He obtained at the competition a 
second prize, which exempted him from conscription. 
In 1801 he took the first prize for his painting, 
‘¢ Achilles receiving in his tent the deputies of Aga- 
memnon,” which is now to be seen at the Academy 
of Fine Arts, and which is already characteristic of 
him. Although a laureate, he did not at once leave 
for the Eternal City, which was to become his second 
country. The finances of the State were exhausted, 
and there were no funds to pay bursaries, so he 
waited for a more fortunate time, working and 
drawing from the antique and the model in the 


Museum and at Susse’s studio, copying engravings 


2.30 


of the great masters, and preparing himself for coming 
glory, by hard, serious study. 

At last he got to Rome, to the city in which before 
him another austere master, Poussin, had become so 
thoroughly naturalised that he almost forgot France 
amidst the masterpieces of antiquity. The artistic 
atmosphere, so favourable to quiet and thoughtful 
work, suited him admirably; he grew stronger in 
silence, in solitude, far from coteries and sets, and 
turned his studio into a sort of cloister which the 
rumour of the world never reached. He lived alone, 
proud and sad; but every day he could admire the 
Loggie and the Stanze of Raphael, and that consoled 
him for many things. Soon after, he married the 
woman who had been sent to him from France, and 
who, by providential good fortune, turned out to be 
exactly the one whom he would have chosen for him- 
self. Every one knows with what tireless devotion 
Madame Ingres kept from her husband all those little 
troubles which wear and distract genius. She con- 
cealed from him the painful side of life, and created 
around him an atmosphere of calm and serenity, even 
when times were hardest. Sure of attaining his end 


sooner or later, although he saw his work disregarded 


EkkkebbeLeebreteeet teeter 
PORTRATIDS § OF) 00 Fl Eee 


or little esteemed, Ingres persisted in following the 
path upon which he had started, and often want made 
itself felt within his household. Such poverty is glori- 
ous and may well be spoken of. At Florence the art- 
ist, whose work is now worth its weight in gold, was 
obliged to paint portraits for the meanest price in order 
to defray household expenses, and he did not even al- 
ways have portraits to paint. Never did an artist 
carry farther contempt for money and easily acquired 
reputation. 

He laboured a long time over his paintings, and 
knew how to await the moment of inspiration of works 
which were to last forever. “The public is inclined to 
believe that the painter of the “ Vow of Louis XIII,” 


5] 


of the Homer ceiling and of the “ Stratonice,” is not a 
rapid worker. ‘That is a mistake. ‘The painter is so 
thoroughly trained and so sure of himself that he never 
puts on a touch of colour which does not tell, and often 
Ingres has painted in a single day a great figure from 
head to foot in which no one else than he could detect 
a defect. But an artist so conscientious and so strong 
is not easily satisfied ; what is well is not sufficient, he 
wants the best, and only stops at the point where the 


imperfection of human means stops geniuses which are 


DA 


most trained to pursue the ideal. So paintings which 
he began at the outset of his career have only recently 
been finished, but those who have been fortunate 
enough to see them do not think the artist’ took too 
long to complete them, although they have been some 
forty years on the easel. 

“The Odalisque,” for which Queen Caroline of 
Naples gave him a commission in 1813 and which 
was purchased by M. Pourtalés in 1816 for the orna- 
ment of his gallery — it now belongs to M. Goupil, 
who was determined that the masterpiece should not 
leave France — was the first picture which drew atten- 
tion to the master, who was yet unknown in his own 
country. ‘The effect it produced might have discour- 
aged a man of less sturdy convictions. His exquisite 
perfection of drawing, his admirable and delicate model- 
ing, the splendid taste which united the choicest of 
nature to the purest traditions of antiquity, were not 
then appreciated. “The Odalisque”’ was called 
Gothic, and the painter was accused of seeking to go 
back to the dawn of art. This strange judgment is no 
invention of mine. “The barbarians whom his critics 
of 1817 said Ingres was supposed to be imitating were 


merely Andrea Mantegna, Leonardo da Vinci, Perugino, 


a 


che oe oe ke che abe che oe che ected oho eo so leah ceo obec 
PORTRAIMS OF (THE Dee 


Raphael, — people who, as of course every one knows, 
have long since been left behind by progress. Later 
on the Romanticists also were reproached with making 
the French language go back to Ronsard. 

“The Vow of Louis XIII,’ on which Ingres 
worked for three years, at last compelled admiration. 
Never, indeed, since the days of the painter of Urbino 
had a nobler, a more splendid Madonna presented a 
more divine Child Jesus to the worship of angels and 
of men. The French artist had taken rank, by that 
masterpiece, among the great Italian masters of the 
sixteenth century. ‘The angels drawing up the cur- 
tains, the children bearing tablets, the King’s figure 
seen from the back and showing merely a slight pro- 
file above a great fleur-de-lised mantle, the folds of 
which spread out over the slabs of the pavement, 
were painted in a style and with a power the tra- 
ditions of which had been lost for more than two 
centuries. 

In 1824 Ingres received the cross of the Legion of 
Honour, and in 1825 he was elected to the Institute 
of France. The ‘Apotheosis of Homer,” in the 
Salon of 1827, at which were exhibited also Eugéne 
Devéria’s “ Birth of Henry IV,” and Eugéne Dela- 


234 


croix’ ‘*Sardanapalus,’ crowned the glory of the 
artist who had been so long misunderstood. He thus 
gained for himself in a serene region far above the 
squabbles of schools, a position apart, which he has 
kept ever since and which no one has attempted to 
take from him. He maintains himself in it with ma- 
jestic tranquillity, — pacem summa tenent, —hearing only 
the vague rumours of the distant world and cultivating 
the beautiful without any distraction; a stranger to his 
time, but living with Phidias and Raphael that eternal 
life of art which is true life, since often but a poem, 
a statue, a painting remains of a whole vanished 
nation. 

Curiously enough, this austere master was supported 
by the Romanticists, and he counted more enthusiastic 
partisans among the members of the new school than 
in the Academy. Although Ingres might, to a super- 
ficial observer, appear to be a classical painter, he is 
not in the least so; he goes back straight to primitive 
sources, to Greek antiquity, to the sixteenth century ; 
no one more faithfully observes local colour than he 
does. His “Entry of Charles V into Paris” is like a 
Gothic tapestry ; his “ Francesca da Rimini” seems to 


have been taken from one of those precious illumin- 


235 


tttebhbbbbbhbttbtttt tbh tbh 


we whe vie ore 


PORTRATSIS #0.) fo bvar a 


ated manuscripts which called for all the patience of 
artists; his “* Roger and Angelica” possesses the chiv- 
alrous grace of Ariosto’s poem ; his “ Sistine Chapel ” 
might have been signed by Titian; while the subjects 
he has drawn from antiquity, such as ‘Cédipus,”’ 
“The Apotheosis of Homer,” the ‘ Stratonice,”’ 


> 


‘‘Venus Anadyomene,” seem to be painted in exactly 
the way that Appelles would have painted them. His 
‘“¢Qdalisques”’ would excite the Sultan’s jealousy, so 
familiar does the artist appear to be with the secrets of 
the harem. Nor has any one rendered modern life 
better than he has, as witness the immortal portrait 
of M. Bertin de Vaux, which seems to be the phy- 
siology of a character and the history ofa reign. 
If Ingres knows how to make the folds of Greek 
drapery fall admirably, he knows equally well how 
to turn modern dress to the best account, and how 
to drape a shawl, as is proved by his portraits 
of women. 

Whatever may be the subject he takes up, Ingres 
treats it with the same rigorous accuracy, the same 
extreme fidelity to colour and form, and never yields 
to academic mannerism; for if in Cherubini’s histor- 


ical portrait he has introduced Polyhymnia stretching 


236 


Ltée EELS ett ttet tee 
INGRES 


out her hand over the artist’s inspired brow, he has 
represented the old master in his wig and cloak; and 
in his treatment of subjects drawn from antiquity, In- 
gres acts exactly like a poet who, desiring to write a 
Greek tragedy, goes back to Aschylus, Euripides, and 
Sophocles, instead of imitating Racine and his disciples. 
In this sense he is a Romanticist; hence it is not sur- 
prising that he gained many followers among the new 
school, although for the public in general any man 
who paints scenes from ancient history and mythology 
is a Classicist. 

The “ Martyrdom of Saint Symphorius,’” which 
would have been admired by Michael Angelo and Giu- 
lio Romano, was not fortunate enough to please the 
French public at the Exposition of 1834. The sub- 
lime head of the saint, the magnificent gesture of the 
mother, the superb attitudes of the lictors, were not 
enough to make the colour, with its mat, sober, strong 
likeness to the tone of the frescoes of the great 
masters, find favour in the eyes of the sight-seers. 
The artist, rightly indignant, withdrew, as Achilles 
under his tent, to Rome, where he became director of 
the French School, and he gave himself up to the 


teaching of his art with an authority which no other 


aot 


shecde ote cde oh de che ch che check edhe check he cbech oh heed 
PORT RAIMS)( OF {TBE Dies 


professor could equal. His pupils adored and feared 
him, and every day there occurred in the school vio- 
lent and extraordinary scenes, quarrels, and reconcilia- 
tions. Ingres speaks of his art with singular eloquence. 
Phidias and Raphael excite in him effusions and lyrical 
outbursts which should be taken down in short-hand. 
On other occasions, when calmer, he enunciates max- 
ims and advice which it is always well to follow, and 
which contain the whole esthetics of painting com- 
pressed in an abrupt, concise, but clear way. 

His influence has been very great and continues to 
be felt. Hippolyte Flandrin, Amaury Duval, Leh- 
mann, Ziegler, Chassériau were his most remarkable 
pupils, but each one, it may be said, did honour to his 
master within the bounds of his own talent. 

At the Universal Exposition of 1855, Ingres’ works 
were exhibited in a separate room, a sort of special 
chapel of that great jubilee of painting to which the 
worshippers of the beautiful repaired from every coun- 
try under the sun. 

The limits of my article have not allowed me to 
write of the whole of the master’s work; I preferred 
to consider the artist generally. In spite of some 


personal peculiarities, | admire his whole personality, 


238 


his harmonious life dedicated unreservedly to art, his 
persistent striving after the beautiful, which nothing 
has distracted. Men who are partisans of religious, 
political, or philosophical systems, will no doubt affirm 
that Ingres does not serve any idea. Thhat is precisely 
wherein lies his superiority. Art is the end, and not 
a means for him, and never was there a higher end. 
Every poet, sculptor, or painter who uses his pen, 
chisel, or brush to serve any system whatever, may 
be more or less of a statesman, or of a philosopher, 
but I should greatly mistrust the value of his verse, 
of his statues, of his paintings. He has failed to 
understand that beauty is superior to any other con- 
ception. Did not Plato himself say that ‘“ Beauty is 
the splendour of truth ?” 

There is still another quality which could be joined 
to all the others which Ingres possessed: he preserved 
the secret, now lost, of reproducing feminine beauty. 
Look at the “Iliad” and the “ Odyssey,” at ‘ An- 
gelica,” “The Odalisque,” the ‘ Portrait of Mme. de 
Vaugay,” which the great Leonardo da Vinci would 
willingly have signed; at ‘‘ Cherubini’s Muse,” the 
“Venus Anadyomene,” the “Stratonice,” the figure 


of Victory in “The Apotheosis of Napoleon,” and 
239 


ore ewe ere eve eve 


PORTRAITS" © Ros T Tt ae 


obs obo obs obs obs obs obs obs cle obs obs ale chs obo obs obs obs obs obs abe obo of of cl 


finally ‘“* The Spring,” a genuine Parian marble flushed 
with life, an incredible masterpiece, a marvel of grace 
and of bloom, a flower of Greek springtime which 
blossomed under the artist’s brush at an age when the 


palette falls from the sturdiest hands. 


240 


oi cd als 5 RANE BR Ca 
che che bs abe oy oh abs abe ohn obs acre of oleae ole ob eb alee elle ole 


owe ate ws CFS OFS CFO ae re oFe 


OTe CFO CFE OFS CTO OTE TTS OFS OTS CWO 


RAVE DEWAR O GH E 


Born IN 1797—DIED IN 1836 


N years gone by, I criticised Paul Delaroche 
rather harshly. It was in the days when con- 
troversies on art were fought out to the bitter 

end and with the sharpest weapons. Happy times 
they were! Who gets excited to-day for or against 
a poet, a painter, or a composer? ‘The splendid 
wrath and the hot admiration of bygone years are 
known no more. I hated Paul Delaroche, whom I 
had never seen, with a savage and esthetic hatred; I 
could have eaten him, and thought him good eating, as 
the young redskin thought the Bishop of Quebec. 
What was the cause of this deep aversion? Delaroche 
in painting, as Casimir Delavigne in literature, was 
hurting and turning out of its course, by prudent 
concessions, by timid boldness, by a sort of bourgeois 
Romanticism, the great movement directed by Victor 
Hugo and Eugéne Delacroix. His paintings, com- 


posed like the endings of a tragedy and executed with 


16 241 


$$ _—_—_—_—__ 


Seetee tee eetetettttstetes 


PORTRATIEIS OF Tih aa 


extreme finish, drew crowds. He indulged in a co- 
quettish, polished, lustrous medizvalism, minutely ac- 
curate in trifles, which delighted the Philistines. On 
all hands I was asked, “What more do you want? 
He does not paint Greeks or Romans.” But I had 
discovered the leg of Achilles in Cromwell’s jack-boot, 
and the torso of Hyacinth under the surcoat of the 
Princes in the Tower, and thereat I did both yell and 
rage! I wish you could have seen me, with wild hair 
and all my claws showing, leaping about in my part of 
the newspaper like a caged wild beast. ‘The fanatics 
of my school, the wan, the tanned, the greenery-yallery, 
the long-haired, the fiercely moustached, the heavily 
bearded, those who wore ruffles and jerkins, called 
out, *¢ Well roared, lion.” 

Many years have since gone by. As I recall these 
things and smile at the sacred fury of my youth, I do 
not in any respect regret it. Pure thought inspired 
me, boundless love of art impelled me, and the danger 
which I pointed out was in no wise chimerical. I 
was wrong, no doubt, in the form of my attack, but 
at bottom I was right. My task was a noble one; I 
was pleading the cause of ignored genius against popu- 


lar talent, and fanatical, like every believer, I tried to 


242 


asINt) 9p dynq 9y) Jo yIwaq 


tnoids *q a81095 Aq ‘1061 ‘yystAdoD 


decbeabobch oh bbb bh bebchdbeecb ded cbabeh oh abeet 


Wwe Co CFe ve we ve ee 


PAU DELAROCGCHE 


shatter the idol of the crowd in order to erect upon its 
pedestal the statue of the true god. 

Since then, while remaining true to my beliefs, I 
have come to recognise the ingenious mind, the patient 
study, and the unswerving perseverance of the artist; I 
have admired, as every one has, and more than any 
one has, that marvellous little masterpiece, ‘The 
Death of the Duke of Guise,” an amazingly faithful 
historical painting, a photographic reproduction of a 
period made centuries later, a retrospective picture 
which might well be the work of an eye-witness. 

Although Paul Delaroche enjoyed a reputation 
more than European, and which might, without exag- 
geration be called world-wide, it is not a paradox to 
affirm that he is little known. Among the members 
of the present generation, there are few who have seen 
paintings by him. Popular though he was, thanks to 
the splendid engravings published by Goupil, who had 
for him a sort of worship, he avoided the noisy arena 
of the Salon; he even kept away from the great Ex- 
position of 1855, to which French and foreign masters 
sent their finest paintings. 

The exhibition of his works in the Palace of the 


Fine Arts, was almost a complete novelty to most of 


243 


the visitors, to whom the recent works of the painter 
are assuredly unknown, even supposing they have seen 
and recall his former ones. 

I approve of these solemn exhibitions, in which the 
dead artist, before he passes definitely to posterity, 
shows frankly and simply his work from his earliest 
lisp in art to his final word. So what I have to do 
now is to pass a serious judgment which shall con- 
ciliate the respect due to an illustrious memory with 
the severity obligatory in matters affecting the pres- 
ent and the future of art. I am far from desiring 
to diminish the reputation of one of the glories of 
France, and yet it is well not to yield to an easily 
understood admiration, and in the name of high art to 
make some reservations, to state some objections 
against tendencies which ought not to be encouraged. 

Paul Delaroche was not born a painter. He did 
not possess the gift, as did the masters of the sixteenth 
century, to say nothing of some of our own contempo- 
raries; art is not in him a native flower which blooms 
spontaneously in the springtime of life, and crowns the 
brow of Raphael; Delaroche did not produce, when 
quite young and almost unconsciously, masterpieces 


which he found it difficult to surpass in mature age, 


244 


teteteeteeeeetetettetetes 


PAUL DELAROCHE 


even if he managed to equal them. He had not 
the innate feeling for form, still less the fecling for 
colour, or that imperious temperament of the painter, 
which betrays itself in the first daubs of the child. But 
he possessed in a high degree intelligence and will; he 
bent all the persistent qualities of his mind to the at- 
tainment of a determinate end; he worked, he cor- 
rected, he improved, and he stopped only at his extreme 
limits, starting again when rested and stronger, after 
a halt for meditation. Never was the oft quoted Latin 
proverb, Labor improbus omnia vincit, more fittingly 
applicable; but notwithstanding the proverb, it is not 
true that determined work will accomplish everything ; 
grace, in the Christian sense, is also needed; works 
alone will not save a man. 

Differing in this from born painters, to whom the 
subject of a composition is almost always indifferent, 
and who make hundreds of masterpieces out of two or 
three insignificant subjects, Paul Delaroche was always 
very much concerned with it. In this respect it may 
be said that he belonged to the middle classes. He 
tried to be interesting, which is a matter absolutely 
secondary in art. If a visitor in a gallery of paintings 


stops before a picture, and instead of looking at it and 


24.5 


BLELEELELELEALALALL AL LAL ALS 
PORTRAWPYS, .O.F TA Eee 


enjoying it, first turns over his catalogue to find out 
what is the historical scene or anecdote represented, 
you may affirm of him, without fear of being mistaken, 
that unquestionably the man does not love painting. 
Delaroche has far too many such visitors. Clean- 
ness of outline, power or delicacy in modelling, 
harmony in colour, the imitation of nature idealised 
through style, are far more important than curiosity or 
the selection of a subject. ‘There is the true, the only, 
the unchanging subject of painting. Of late the liter- 
ary idea has been confounded with the picturesque idea, 
yet no two things can be more dissimilar. If I were 
to say that a picture of still life by Chardon, which 
represents a ray fish, a bunch of celery, a stewpan, or 
an earthenware jar even, has the picturesque idea 
which is lacking in vast cyclical, genetical, philosophi- 
cal, historical, ethnographical, and prophetical compo- 
sitions, | should probably surprise many society people, 
but certainly, [ should not surprise artists, who are 
perfectly well aware of that truth. In France the 
feeling for plasticity scarcely exists; beauty in itself 
does not interest us. “The multitude, cold and inatten- 
tive, passes by a Greek torso, headless, armless, legless, 


a divine fragment which sings the hymn of pure beauty 


246 


che abe abe abe obs abe abe che abe abe cbr toate che che ch eb aha cto cd oe fe hele 
PAUL DELAROCHE 


in its mute marble language, and crowds in front of a 
painting which needs a page of explanations in small 
type in the Salon catalogue. Delaroche’s success with 
this portion of the public was therefore immense every 
time he allowed them to see his pictures. He intro- 
duced the drama into painting. Every one of his works 
is like the fifth act of a melodrama or of a tragedy, and 
at the bottom of them might be written, as a last direc- 
tion, * Curtain.”’ 

Our people prefer a dramatic form, for it suits our 
simple, accurate, positive minds. Paul Delaroche was 
very French in this respect; he himself possessed the 
taste which he so thoroughly served. . At bottom 
Ingres’ drawing is as unpleasant to the general public 
as Delacroix’ colour, for two different reasons. These 
two masters cultivated pure art; that is, for the one, line 
is the most important thing, as tone is for the other. 
They do not delight that numerous class which reads a 
picture as it would one of Walter Scott’s novels. 

It is strange to afirm of a man who attained every 
possible honour in his art, that he mistook his vocation 
when he chose painting, which brought him so much 
renown; but after having paid three visits to the exhibi- 


tion in the Palace of the Fine Arts, I cannot help 


247 


toebbebtbetbtettttbttteoths 


PORTRAITS: (O'F LU IGry ee 
feeling that Paul Delaroche would have succeeded 
much better on the stage ; it was in that direction that 
his real talent lay, for he possessed remarkable skill in 
stage-setting and wonderful knowledge of dramatic 
grouping, and even —to be quite frank — of the way 
to light up the dead and the beheaded. 

One very striking fact, brought out most significantly 
by the exposition in the Palace of Fine Arts, is the 
uninterrupted progress of the artist as his work ad- 
vanced; the merit of his paintings might be classified 
in chronological order and the man who wanted to 
have the best need only carry away the last.’ If he 
could have lived to a hundred, like Titian, he would 
unquestionably have become a great painter. ‘There 
is something touching in his intelligent and reflective 
obstinacy, which progressed towards perfection slowly 
but surely, never discouraged, understanding what it 
lacks, seeking to acquire it, and almost managing, in 
“©The Christian Martyr,” to produce a real masterpiece 
after so many sham ones. At a time of life when 
decadence has, in the case of most men, long since 
begun, Paul Delaroche kept on rising. 

To understand how great is the distance he has 


traversed, one must look longer than they deserve, 


248 


——— 


debe cleo oh deck db cleo dedededb ob cheb obeeleob dhe dat 


la 
ete ve eTe ete OTe ete 


foe ele) IEA RO GH FE 


perhaps, at the paintings in the first room, the oldest 
in point of time, and it will be seen with what blind 
groping, with what laborious uncertainty, with what 
painful stiffness, the painter’s will makes its way 
through all obstacles. The one idea which is still 
quite visible is the subject, ever the main preoccupation 
of Delaroche. ‘ Joash Saved from the Dead,” ‘“‘ The 
Death of President Duranti,” “The Death of Queen 
Elizabeth,’ “The Massacre of Saint Bartholomew,” 
“The Death of Agostino Caracci,’” ‘ Joan of Arc 
questioned by the Cardinal of Winchester,’’ — all these 
show his seeking after funereal or violent scenes. The 
drawing is weak, the forms are mean or exaggerated, 
the colour is dull or staring; the composition alone is 
remarkable for its ingenious or theatrical arrangement. 
Such as they are, at the time when they were first ex- 
hibited these paintings must have attracted the atten- 
tion of the crowd, although they could not satisfy the 
severe taste of connoisseurs. Delaroche, no doubt, 
thought them worse than any one else did, for no one 
was more lucidly critical concerning his own work. 
“Cardinal Richelieu towing Cinq-Mars and de 
Thou behind his barge on the Rhone,” ‘ Cardinal 


Mazarin watching a game of cards from his bed,” 


249 


tetbbbbbebtthbbbhbbth hkl 
PORTRAITS OR Dita 


mark a distinct advance in the artist’s work. The 
composition is clever; the colour, in spite of exagger- 
ated transparencies, and glaring high-lights, does not 
affect one unpleasantly; the faces of the characters 
have the imprint of the time, the costumes are cor- 
rect; the painter’s thought is readily grasped, and the 
two paintings, reproduced by engravings, are hanging 
as companions on the walls of more than one drawing- 
room of the middle-class public. 

I believe that this was the natural turn of Delaroche’s 
talent. Episodical history, treated within these limits, 
suited his powers, which were delicate rather than 
strong. ‘¢ The Assassination of the Duke of Guise,” 
which is his masterpiece, proves this. In this case 
there is room for praise only. ‘The pale, effeminate 
head which shows at the door and gazes fearfully at 
the great body that lies at the other end of the room 
murdered by ruffianly cut-throats, produces a dramatic 
impression in the truest sense of the word; it is as 
genuine as a scene in Shakespeare. The background, 
with its minute realism, imparts reality to a scene 
which must certainly have occurred as it is represented. 


The personages have the attitudes of bravi, and seem 


drawn from life by a contemporary. Never was the 


abe ob oll abe abaob obs leafs eb ola esol le ole ola 


OO CFO VTE VTS OVO OVO UTS OTS CTS z ve 


ay 
aU Pela R'O Cinis 


local colour of any period better or more faithfully 
reproduced. 

The “ Jane Grey” is a Romanticist painting after 
the fashion of Casimir Delavigne, with whom Paul 
Delaroche had much in common. The painter and 
the poet might have exchanged subjects for tragedies 
and pictures; they both understood art in the same 
way, and both, therefore, won during their lifetime 
that popular success which serious art does not always 
obtain. There is a great deal of skill in this painting. 
The straw which is intended to soak up the victim’s 
blood on the scaffold deceives the eye, and more than 
one spectator is tempted to draw out a piece of it. 
The little waxen hands of Jane Grey, which are put 
out and seem to feel for the block, formerly made 
a deep impression upon Philistine sensibilities, and 
possibly still do so. The white satin of the skirt 
is also very beautiful, the folds are nicely broken and 
shimmer with pearly tones, and are set off by light 
shadows. ‘The face of the maid, who is fainting and 
leans against a pillar, recalls in its costume and its 
adornment certain figures of Holbein, although it lacks 
substance and is as flat as if it were cut out of paper 


and stuck on the gray background; nevertheless, there 


eM sit 


Kesh che oho che ch che che oe abe abe be hehe ce ch oh che ob ce che choc 


PORTRAINS (On Tinie aos 


is a certain feeling and sentiment about it. The violet 
trunk-hose of the executioner is empty, and the legs 
which it is supposed to cover are not indicated by any 
anatomical detail; yet the contrast between the 
lovely neck and the heavy axe makes one shudder; 
and it would always be difficult, if not impossible, to 
make a French public understand that this pathetic 
scene is not a good painting, and that the smallest 
sketch by a Venetian of the decadence, Tiepolo, 
Montemezzano, Fumiani, or any other whose name is 
not written or spoken once in ten years, fulfils much 
more completely the conditions of art. ‘That very 
defect is the cause of Delaroche’s success. Painting 
for a people which is literary above all things, he did 
not paint, but wrote his pictures, and the reasons which 
led me to blame him are precisely those which won 
him success. Yet it would be unfair not to acknowl- 
edge that there is a great deal of improvement in “ Jane 
Grey ” over “ The Death of Elizabeth,” in the form 
at least. ‘The artist does what he wants to do, he has 
rendered his conception absolutely ; the master begins 
to show. 

The “Strafford” annoys the eye by the abuse of 
black tints, which have an ugly look of shoe-black- 


252 


che ote oe bea che ob oe he oe fe oade feo el alec belo ob 


ore OTS CFS CFS OHO CTO OFS CTO UTS ATS TO O80 O36 CTO ete OHO OTS ee un » we 


Paowil DLA R O'CHE 


ing. Artists who are colourists skilfully relieve by 
means of g/acis and reflections that tint which absorbs 
the light and the use of which should be avoided as 
much as possible. Van Dyck very often painted 
figures dressed in black, but he did not indulge in 
that excess; he avoided the violet ink shade, and im- 
parted instead a harmonious warmth which consorts 
with the golden whiteness of the linen of the collars. 
The defects in Delaroche’s painting are not visible 
in the engraving, which exhibits merely the skilful 
arrangement of the composition. 

In his “Saint Cecilia”? Paul Delaroche seems to 
have felt the influence of Ingres, or rather, of the old 
Italian masters. He has filled in with light colour the 
clearly drawn contours, but he possesses neither the 
purity of drawing, the delicacy of modelling, nor 
the Gothic artlessness, which are the real charm of 
these archaic imitations; he cannot interest by the 
expression of beauty alone, he needs a subject, a scene. 
The angels which support the organ on which rest 
the ecstatic saint’s fingers, are merely pretty ; they 
lack the seraphic idealism of the figures painted by 
Angelo da Fiesole, Perugino, and Giovanni Bellini. 


But on the other hand, the drawing which he made, 


253 


& 


iP 
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it 
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i 
te 
i 
- 
. 
ze 
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PORTRAITS JOT) TIRE See 


tinted in pastel, for a stained-glass window, and which 
represents Saint Amelia offering her crown to the 
Virgin, is charming and worthy in every respect of 
being engraved by Calamatta. 

It is to this period that belongs the “ Young Italian 
and her Child.” Paul Delaroche here attempted style 
and line. He sought to attain to the severe contour 
and the virile bistre colouring of the great masters 
of the Roman school. This painting exhibits some 
striking qualities, but, as I have already said, such 
subjects, which are excellent for thorough painters, do 
not suit Delaroche; they are not significant enough. 

“© A Mother’s Choice” is painted in a dry, conven- 
tional fashion. “The auburn hair, bound with cherry- 
coloured ribbons, that falls in waves upon rosy flesh, 
denotes the desire to attain a harmony which a Vene- 
tian would have secured without difficulty, but which 
is dulled by the brush of a painter who is less of a 
colourist. 

The “ Marie Antoinette in Prison” sins through 
the abuse of black of which I spoke just now. Black, 
like red, green, blue, — like any other colour, — has 
lights, half-tints, and shades; it does not make an 


absolutely opaque spot amid surrounding objects, it is 


254 


Powis DLA ROCHE 


ew 


connected with them by reflections, by the distribution 
of light, by breaks, or else it makes a hole in the 
painting. The Queen’s head is very beautiful and full 
of dignity. The artist has ventured to paint her with 
her hair prematurely turned white, her eyes reddened 
by tears, her face discoloured and weary. I can only 
regret that a weak, boneless, unarticulated hand should 
press against the skirt a white handkerchief which looks 
like a flake of foam. Among the faces half in shadow 
which crowd in the narrow passage as the Queen goes 
by, some expressing pity and others hatred, some bestial 
indifference and others stupid curiosity, there are well- 
observed and well-rendered types. The acute feeling 
for the dramatic which is characteristic of Delaroche 
betrays itself in that admirably grouped multitude. 
The idea of representing Napoleon riding on a mule 
was bound to attract and did attract the ingenious artist 
in search of incidents, details, and anecdotes. Person- 
ally I prefer David’s epic conception, but the crowd is 
delighted with this fac-simile, for it must have been 
just in this way that the hero crossed the Alps, just in 
that dress, and led by a guide through snow which, as 
it fell away, did not allow the names of Hannibal and 


Cesar to be seen inscribed on the rocks. 


255 


s 


che abe abe ote he aha te ce he abe cde cece choo ce choos oe choo ae che oe 


PORTRAITS iO Fi Tae ae 


The head of ‘ Napoleon at Fontainebleau” is a 
good likeness and is wrought with some style and 
force, but you may be sure that the vulgar chiefly 
admire the mud stains on the imperial boots. Whom 
are we to blame, the painter or the vulgar crowd? 

The last paintings of Delaroche show immense 
progress. His *¢ Girondins ” is excellent. Within the 
proportions of a genre painting, the artist has managed 
to give us a real historical composition without any 
emphasis, rhetoric, affectation, or sham poetry. He 
has overcome with infinite taste the difficulties pre- 
sented by the costume of the time; he has given the 
proper likeness to every head, the proper expression, 
the proper manners, so to speak. As for “ The 
Christian Martyr,” there is on that pale face lighted 
by the halo, a reflection of the grace of Correggio. 
The small, intimate dramas of the Passion, although 
they may be reproached with lowering divine suffering 
to the level of humanity, are full of sentiment, of a 
tender, vague colour, of emotional effect, of suave 
touches, and prove that the artist was entering into a 
new sphere just as he was stopped by death. A num- 
ber of pencil sketches, some brought out by pastel, 
deserve to be mentioned with praise. “They are genu- 


256 


SSeS i ED = 


aoake deck ok ke oe oe oe cece lees eco choco seh 
PAUL DEV ARO CHE 


ine, masterly drawings, to which colour could add 
nothing and which it might very well spoil. 

M. Goupil’s portrait is famous, and that of M. Thiers 
is greatly lauded, but I prefer to both of those the por- 
trait of M.E. Pereire. ‘The face is amazingly well 
modelled, with its gray harmony, and the hands are 
perhaps the best studied out ever painted by Delaroche. 

On leaving the exposition I passed into the Hemi- 
cycle where the prizes are awarded. A great mural 
painting spreads under the cupola, lighted by a soft, 
uniform light. Henriquel-Dupont’s engraving made 
this beautiful composition so familiar to every one that 
it is unnecessary to describe it. Mural painting has 
the advantage of enlarging the manner of artists, as if 
painting became more robust when it comes in contact 
with stone. Paul Delaroche, without equalling the 
style of the painters whose portraits he had so vigor- 
ously grouped upon the marble benches of that ideal 
academy, exhibits here unmistakable qualities of draw- 
ing and colour. But how greatly superior is the 
modified reduction to the original. 

And now, what will be Paul Delaroche’s place in 
the future? He will be in painting what Casimir 


Delavigne is in poetry. 


17 257 


ARYE SIGE ER RE UR 


Born IN 1795 — DIED IN 1858 


: YOUNG men will have to work harder and 
to make greater efforts in order to maintain 
France in the leading position which she 

holds in the arts. ‘They have to fill up many a break 

in the sacred phalanx, for death seems to prefer to 

strike down the most famous. He who was but a 

private yesterday, is now a captain. Let him remem- 

ber that he has to maintain the honour of the flag. 

But alas! such is life, and as Glaucus said so many 

centuries ago, — 

«* As the leaves from the wood, so vanish the races of men. 

The wind casts down and dries the leaves, but in the spring 


come other leaves and other buds. Thus with mankind, — 


the one comes, the other goes.”’ 


I did not know Ary Scheffer personally, and I regret 
it, for he was one of the most remarkable figures of our 
age, which posterity will count among the climacteric 


epochs of human genius. But the stream of life bore 


258 


ARY SCHEFFER 


me elsewhere, and that face is lacking in my Pantheon. 
Those who saw him tell me that he had a fine roman- 
tic head, as passionate and as deep-marked as one 
might imagine Faust’s to have been, a dark complexion, 
silvered in later years by long locks of white hair and 
tufts of gray beard, with a dreamy, melancholy, 
spiritual expression, entirely in harmony with his talent. 
He looked what he was expected to look like, which is 
a rare thing, and people did not say of him as of other 
artists no less great, “‘ I fancied he looked differently.” 

The first appearance of Ary Scheffer took place at 
the period of glorious Renaissance which saw rise at 
one and the same time Eugéne Devéria, Bonnington, 
Eugéne Delacroix, Louis Boulanger, Decamps, Roque- 
plan, Saint-Evre, Poterlet, Paul Huet, Cabat, Théo- 
dore Rousseau, David d’Angers, Préault, and so many 
other fiery champions of liberty in art. Ary Scheffer 
was one of the first to break with the old academic 
traditions — his German origin made Romanticism 
come easily and naturally to him. All minds were 
then turned towards Greece, which was fighting to 
conquer its independence; every poet, every painter 
testified to this generous preoccupation by a song, or by 


a painting. Ary Scheffer painted the ‘“ Women of 
259 


wll oe oll obs elle obs obs abr os abe ol elrcle ofa obs obs obs obs ol oboe ol ole ofl 


ore ote ote owe wo oie oe we ore ete 


PORTRAITS (0. GE wee 


Suli.””. You remember that these heroines, in order 
to escape the brutality of Ali Pacha’s men, threw 
themselves from the top of a cliff. It was a fine sub- 
ject for a painting. Ary Scheffer treated it with a fire 
of colour and a freedom of touch much more surpris- 
ing at that time than now, and introduced into it at the 
same time, a passionate grace, a pathetic sentimentality 
which even now may be admired. 

Like many masters Ary Scheffer had two manners, 
but the first has almost no relation to the second, and 
might be that of another painter. In his first manner 
he sought for colour effects, used bitumen to excess, and 
worked with rough touches, so that his paintings pre- 
served the appearance of sketches. He seemed to 
prefer poetry, inspiration, and feeling to laborious 
correctness. He was, to use a term the meaning 
of which was more clearly understood formerly than 
nowadays, a real Romanticist painter; he had cast 
away the old, trite models used by the school of David, 
would have nothing to do with mythology, but bor- 
rowed his subjects from Goethe, Byron, Burger, and 
the old German legends. Ina word, he was orthodox 
in heresy. What distinguished him from his rivals, 


who were more exclusively painters than he, is that he 


260 


chs oho oho he oho abe che abe he of abo ctcbe che obr cdo cdo ofr feeds bh boat 
ARY SCHEFFER 


did not turn to his palette when excited directly by the 
sight of things; he seemed to warm himself up by 
reading the poets, and then to seek for forms which 
would express his literary impressions. Instead of 
looking at nature directly, he contemplated her re- 
flection in a masterpiece. He saw with his mind’s eye 
Marguerite traversing the drama of “ Faust;” very 
possibly he would not have noticed her had he met her 
in the street. ‘This defect, if it be one, harmonised too 
well with the passionate fondness for the reading of 
poets then felt by a young public not to have been 
reckoned a merit in the artist, who thus realised types 
dear to every one. 

] remember the effect produced by his first “ Mar- 
guerite,”’ for Ary Scheffer painted quite a number, 
This was a half-length seated figure, in an_atti- 
tude of sorrowful meditation. Her pale, fair hair 
was dressed in bandeaux upon her delicate temples, 
slightly veined with azure; on the upper part of the 
forehead there was a touch of silver light which was 
prolonged to and vanished on the edge of the pro- 
file. The rest of the head, melting and, as it were, 
etherealised within an azure shadow, resembling the 


light of German moonbeams, disappeared, vanished, 


261 


$eteeeeeeeeteebtttrtstesr 
PORTRATES (OF Tite pia 


became idealised like the remembrance of a dream, 
through which shone the glance of an eye as blue as a 
forget-me-not. It was the shadow of a shade, and yet 
full of morbid charm, of sickly voluptuousness, of pas- 
sionate languor. No doubt the neck was too long and 
too thin, more like a bird’s than a woman’s; the veins 
of the slender, almost transparent hands, were too blue ; 
but a soul lived within the body itself, faintly indi- 
cated on the background, felt more than painted, and 
the light of the soul, like that of a lamp, illumined the 
picture with marvellous beauty. It was, at one and 
the same time, Marguerite and German poetry, a trans- 
lation of Goethe more accurate in its vague fluidity than 
the literary translations of Stappfer, Gérard, and Henri 
Blaze, and the youth of the day was intoxicated with 
this new enchantment, and refused to listen to the 
morose critics who protested in the name of osteology, 
myology, and sound doctrine. His “ Faust” also was 
greatly admired, and rightly. “The Giaour,’ whom 
Eugene Delacroix had represented in the battle with 
the terrible Hassan, with a fury of motion and a splen- 
dour of colour which he probably never surpassed, was 
also painted by Ary Scheffer, but inan entirely different 


fashion, as the solitary embodiment of Byronian poetry : 


262 


keebteteetttetettetttte 
BOR 2S CHE DnB R 


«« His foating robe around him folding, 
Slow sweeps he through the columned aisle ; 
With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
The rites that sanctify the pile. 
But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 
By yonder lone and wayering torch 
His aspect glares within the porch ; 
There will he pause till all is done — 
And hear the prayer, but utter none, 
See — by the half-illumined wall 
~ His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 
That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 
As if the Gorgon there had bound 
The sablest of the serpent-braid 
That o’er her fearful forehead strayed ; 
For he declines the convent oath, 
And leaves those locks’ unhallowed growth.’’ 


Never was there a finer illustration—TI use this 
word purposely — made of a poetic type. 

Let me also recall ‘ Leonora” watching from the 
city gates the passage of the army in which she misses 
her lover. “The painter, no doubt in the interest of cos- 
tume, indulged in a slight anachronism and put back 
two or three centuries the time of the fantastic story 
told in Burger’s ballad, but Leonora’s face exhibited 

263 


PORTRAITS "eee THE DAY 


the liveliest grief, and the painting had a most romantic 
charm. 

“The King of Thule” and “Eberhard the 
Weeper”’ also belong to this first period. The pale 
sweet head of the young man lying in his armour was 
creatly admired. Rarely had death appeared more 
graceful, and in presence of the picture one recalled 
Byron’s verses at the beginning of “The Giaour,” 
on the supreme beauty which precedes the moment of 
decomposition in people who have died a violent death. 

At that time Ary Scheffer appears to have felt the 
influence which induced him to change his manner. 
No doubt every master, when he has reached the 
maturity of his talent, stops, looks back over the road 
he has traversed, and recollects himself; he feels it 
necessary to come to a decision; according to his tem- 
perament, he grows calmer or more fiery; he holds 
himself in or he pushes on. Some remain on the 
plateau, others start to climb a higher summit. If 
the crisis is not to prove fatal, the artist who feels 
admiration for another must not renounce his own 
powers, and must not seek perfection outside of the 
means at his disposal. Certainly Ingres is a model 


who may be safely offered to young students. He 


264 


HEAACA ASA PSSA tt ttttts 
Po ROY, SGU EE RRR 


possesses the great traditions of art, the feeling for an- 
tiquity, drawing, style, but I think he is dangerous to 
talents already formed. In my opinion Ary Scheffer 
thought too much of this great artist. His “ Marguer- 
ite coming out of Church” showed in the work of 
the painter, who until then had been Romanticist, a 
somewhat dry, clean outline, not justified by sufficient 
accuracy. ‘Faust beholding the Phantom of Mar- 
- guerite in the Witches’ Sabbath” is conceived in the 
same style: the colour, as pale as a wash, is contained 
by sharp lines. ‘The subject, it seems to me, required 
more mystery, and the white shade which bears on 
the neck a red streak as broad as the back of a knife, 
would have been improved by less distinctness. Re- 
gretting his early neglect of line, Ary Scheffer tried to 
become a draughtsman, but one cannot go in later life 
from colour to drawing, which requires a particular 
temperament and long years of work at the age when 
a man studies, and not at that when he performs. For 
a man to do a thing, he must first know it; there is no 
longer time to learn, and Ary Scheffer was wrong to 
abandon, at the flood tide of his reputation, the vague, 
soft, graceful, morbid manner that was personal 


to him and which so admirably interpreted his ideas, 


265 


ttebbtttttttttttttdtdttttt 
POR TRAY AS TO. Fo [ibn Stee 


which were more literary than plastic. By the change 
he lost colour, chiaroscuro, and his own touch, while 
he did not acquire line. Yet his success was main- 
tained, because Ary Scheffer could not renounce his 
own style. ‘Francesca and Paolo” passing against 
the black background of hell like two wounded doves, 
captivated the attention of the public, which under- 
stood the poetical thought only, and did not take note 
of the meagre drawing and modelling. Mignon 
mourning her country” and ‘ Mignon aspiring to 
Heaven” are unlike the living, real, feminine and 
not at all celestial type described by Goethe in 
“Wilhelm Meister’s Years of Apprenticeship and 
Travel,” and it is difficult to recognise in that melan- 
choly, over-spiritualised figure the ardent nostalgia of 
the precocious little girl who performed a country 
dance in a page’s dress and slipped at night into the 
room of the beloved Wilhelm, though not on a 
moonbeam. Yet Ary Scheffer’s “« Mignon” has been 
so completely accepted that it has little by little taken 
the place of the poet’s creation, and that a real portrait 
of her would now be considered unlike by every one, 
even if it whispered with true Southern passion, 


“© K now’st thou the land where the orange blooms ? ” 


266 


eeet¢Lteete¢eeeeeeteteeees 
ARY (o@ti i FER 


In his “ Christus Remunerator” Ary Scheffer made 
a supreme effort to rise to style. The composition is 
well ordered, the idea, though humanitarian rather than 
religious, was capable of suggesting fine motives to a 
painter. But with our artist the hand often failed to 
carry out the purpose, and here the intention is greater 
than the performance. ‘‘ Dante and Beatrix,” ‘Saint 
Augustine and Saint Monica,” perpetuate his system 
of lengthening which causes the body to disappear 
under the stiff folds of draperies in order to bring out 
strongly a head, frail and sickly in its beauty, which 
looks up to heaven. 

But this is not the time to discuss technically the 
work of the famous artist who has just gone down to 
the grave. Ary Scheffer leaves a reputation which will 
be increased by the admirable engravings of his work, 
for these reproduce his qualities merely. The graver 
excels in rendering the thought in a picture, and Ary 
Scheffer’s paintings are pure thought only. Let Ingres, 
Delacroix, Decamps, all the well rounded, robust 
painters be preferred to him,—that is right; yet Ary 
Scheffer’s place is not to be disdained. He was the 
Novalis of painting; if he did not possess an artist’s 


temperament, he had an artist’s soul. His life, a most 


267 


thbebbbbebtetttttcedetdetts 
PORTIRALTS (OF! Pith ae 


honourable one, was filled with noble aspirations only ; 
faith, thought, work, gratitude, occupied him until the 
last instant. Let me add one last word. Ary Scheffer 
was a transposed poet. Dante, Goethe, and Byron 
were his masters, rather than Michael Angelo, Raphael, 
or Titian. He painted in accord with their concep- 


tions, perhaps he ought to have sung like them. 


268 


Born IN 1789 — Diep IN 1865 


SHALL not trouble with biographical details. 

All I know of the man is his work, and that I 

am going to speak of, — its meaning, its value, 
its individuality ; for an account of the paintings pro- 
duced by that indefatigable worker would require a 
whole volume, and not a mere article. 

It is remarkable that Horace Vernet did not take 
sides in any of the burning questions of art which so 
deeply stirred the earlier years of the present century. 
He was claimed neither by the school of style nor by 
that of colour he always escaped the hyperbolical 
praises and the acrimonious insults which the two par- 
ties lavished on each other in those days. In the midst 
of the tumult he peacefully enjoyed a popularity which 
the chiefs of the rival schools, in spite of their un- 
doubted genius and the efforts of their followers, never 
attained. The multitude did not need to be initiated 


before it could understand him. He was readily com- 


269 


te¢¢¢bbteret¢etetteceteess 


Fe ore cTe ete oTe ote ae 


PORTRAITS OF Tilt Gea 


prehended, for he possessed a very rare quality which 
pedants do not prize much, the vision of modern 
things. Nothing seems easier than to paint what one 
constantly sees. Well, that is an error which can be 
proved by strolling through a gallery of paintings. It 
is surprising to notice how little the illustrious painters 
of all ages, of all countries, have, outside of a few por- 
traits, succeeded in reproducing the aspect of their 
times and of their environments. ‘The imitation of 
antiquity, the striving after idealism or style, the superb 
disdain which historical painting manifests for reality, 
the taste for composition and transposition, fashionable 
mannerisms, almost always draw artists away from 
present-day subjects, which they take up apparently 
with regret and which they generally misrepresent. 
So the painter who devotes himself to the faithful 
representation of contemporary facts requires very 
peculiar courage, a predisposition to genius, for he 
has no precedents and no models other than those 
which reality offers him. If a painter wishes to de- 
pict the battle of Hercules and Antzus, he can turn 
to statues, to medals, to gems, to engravings, to 
paintings, to a whole academic tradition; but these 
resources are wholly lacking if it is a question of 


270 


oh oe oe ofa oe a le oe oe abe cdecde oleae ce cde cde soe loot 
HORACE VERNET 


painting a fight between a veteran of the Old Guard 
and a Cossack. 

Although he does not draw the eye by any peculiar- 
ities, yet no one is more original than Horace Vernet. 
He owes nothing to antiquity; the Greeks and the 
Romans do not seem to have existed as far as he was 
concerned. It is impossible to compare him with 
the battle painters who preceded him. He resembles 
neither Raphael in “ The Battle of Constantine,” nor 
Lebrun in ‘“ The Conquests of Alexander,’ nor Sal- 
vator Rosa, nor Bourguignon, nor Van der Meulen, nor 
Gros, the epic painter of Aboukir and Eylau. In his 
battle work perhaps he recalls faintly Carl Vernet, but 
that is allowable in a son. 

Horace Vernet’s glory is the result of his having 
dared, first and foremost, to paint a modern battle, not 
an episode of a fight,—that is, a dozen warriors 
sabring each other in the foreground, upon rearing 
horses which trample under foot the classical wounded 
soldier, — but a real collision of two armies, with their 
lines deployed or concentrating, the artillery gallop- 
ing the batteries thundering, the staffs and the ambu- 
lances, on some vast plain, the natural chessboard 


of great strategic combinations. He understood that 


271 


heed ck ok ch chk chk cbckdbecbecb heck dcheeh oh check 


ore weve Wie 


PORTRAITS OF THE DAY 


the modern hero is that collective Achilles which is 
called a regiment. 

Instead of mourning the ugliness of our costumes, 
which are so rebellious to picturesqueness, Horace 
Vernet quietly accepted the man dressed in modern 
garb. In his work the coat took the place of the 
much regretted torso, the cloak with its collar did not 
seem to him inferior to the pallium of antiquity, and as 
there were no cothurns, he blacked jack-boots. He 
knew uniforms as thoroughly as a clothing officer; the 
army clothing stores gave up all their secrets to him. 
He was accurately acquainted with the number of but- 
tons, the colour of the braiding, the cut of the skirts 
and facings, the stamping of the shako plates, with the 
proper way to strap haversacks, to cross belts, with the 
cocks of the muskets, the grenades or the horns upon 
cartridge boxes, with long and short gaiters, with 
fatigue dress and full dress; and better than all with 
the appearance of the soldier by the camp fire or under 
fire, with his usual characteristic attitudes, with the 
foot-soldier’s shrug of the shoulders, with the dragging 
walk of the cavalryman, with the special type of each 
arm or of each campaign. No one better than he 


reproduced the military chic of a particular time, — if 


O72 


che eo oe oe be oe oe oe abe ce check oleae ob cb fe ooo a oof 
HORACE VERNET 


I may be forgiven that piece of studio slang, which is 
not an academical expression, it is true, but which 
renders my meaning. 

Having painted the soldier of the Republic and of 
the Empire, and preserved his special characteristics, he 
assimilated just as easily the soldier of the African 
army whom he painted with an accuracy of type, 
colour, and go which was never once at fault. And it 
is perhaps just as meritorious to bring out the character- 
istic traits of an army as to imitate a Syracusan medal. 

In order to paint battles; a man must be able to 
paint horses. Many artists of talent have failed in this 
respect. The horse is, next to man, the most difficult 
creature to represent correctly. It possesses a compli- 
cated anatomy which calls for prolonged study ; its 
paces, half natural and half acquired, are really under- 
stood by a thorough horseman only, and to show the 
horse moving under the rider without misrepresenting 
the seat or the gait is a perilous undertaking for any 
one who has not long been familiar with stables, riding- 
schools, drill-grounds, and battle-fields. 

In this, as in everything else, Horace Vernet owed 
nothing to tradition. He did not paint the heavy, his- 


torical horse of monstrous proportions with which art 


18 258 


bebebbebeteeettddtdtttttdettte 
PORTRAHES OF) AE 


was satisfied in the days when the importance given to 
the human figure caused accessories to be neglected ; 
nor did he set his dragoons and.cuirassiers, like the 
white cavalry of the Parthenon, upon the noble animals 
with swelling necks and hog manes which are carved 
in Pentelic marble. He actually was bold enough to 
represent modern horses, their breed, gait, and charac- 
teristics. They certainly have not the poetic beauty 
of the steeds painted by Gros, nor the vigour of those 
whose muscles Gericault interwove under a shimmer- 
ing, veiny skin; but they are irreproachable from the 
horseman’s point of view, and the artist shows them 
dashing forward, held in, spurred on, rearing, galloping, 
leaping hedges, falling to the ground, coming head on, 
in profile, from behind, foreshortened, in the air, — in 
every possible pose, in a word, with the ease, the 
rapidity, and the certainty of a man for whom there 
are no such things as difficulties. 

To all these qualities, which are indispensable to a 
battle painter, he united a keen feeling for the topogra- 
phy of a landscape; he could reproduce exactly the lay 
of the ground on which had been fought great battles, 
the subjects of his paintings, while preserving the aspect 


of nature and the picturesque effect. And as a man 


274 


Reteteebedttteettttttt ttt 


PEO A CE VERN EF 


does thoroughly well only what he is fond of, he adored 
war; in him the artist was partly a soldier. One of 
his paintings represents fairly well this double charac- 
ter. It represents his studio. In one corner there is 
a horse in a loose box ; weapons of all kinds are hang- 
ing on the walls; some of the pupils are fencing; an 
idler sounds the charge, another is drumming; a model 
is posing on the table, and the painter, in front of his 
easel, is working peacefully in the midst of the noise, 
which he enjoys, for Horace Vernet was endowed with 
extraordinary facility. When he started to paint on a 
fresh canvas, you could have sworn that he was un- 
covering a subject already painted and covered over 
with tissue paper, so infallible was the rapidity with 
which the various portions came out under his brush. 
His prodigious memory for things almost saved him 
the trouble of making sketches; it drew in the camera 
obscura of his brain whatever was reflected in it: the 
silhouette of a town, the profile of a soldier, the shape 
of a utensil, the detail of a costume, the arabesque form 
of a braiding, the number on a button, the handle of a 
yataghan, an Arab saddle, a Kabyle mosque, — and he 
drew all his information from that unfailing portfolio, 


which he did not even need to open and to run through. 


wl 


ttettbbtttbtrttetdttddd tds 
PORT RA TES) OF) (iE ae 


With his very first paintings, “ The ‘Trumpeter’s 
Horse,” “The Regimental Dog,” which were followed 
by the battles of ‘“‘ Jemmappes,” “ Valmy ” ‘¢ Hanau,”’ 
“ Montmirail,”’ and “ The Clichy Toll Gate,” Horace 
Vernet conquered his public. People admired his 
thoroughly French qualities, — cleverness, clearness, 
ease, accuracy. “The subjects which he preferred to 
treat were bound to charm a nation in whom the mili- 
tary feeling has always been so strong. ‘The African 
campaigns provided him with vast compositions such 
as “ The Taking of Constantine,” “The Battle of 
Islys iss ihe Smalah,” in which his fully developed 
talent shows most brilliantly. “These works, of a size 
not usually attempted by painters, have something of 
the illusion and of the magic effect produced by pano- 
ramas, and the artist has carried in them to a very high 
degree the power of illusion, a secondary merit, doubt- 
less, but one not to be despised and which greatly im- 
presses the public. ‘The Smalah,”’ in which are 
exhibited the peculiarities of Arab life caught in pictur- 
esque disorder by a sudden invasion, with its charming 
barbaric luxury thrown under the horses’ hoofs, offered 
an admirable opportunity to the painter to vary by 


means of piquant contrasts the regulation monotony of 


276 


tebeeeeeedceeetetbtbttttest 
PUOPRA CHO VERN ETH. 


~ 


uniforms. Horace Vernet, without being a brilliant 
colourist like Eugéne Delacroix, turned to very good 
account the quaint weapons, the gold-striped stuffs, the 
coffers inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the silver-sheathed 
kandjars, the multi-coloured atatiches, —a sort of palan- 
quin in which Oriental jealousy conceals its women 
when travelling. A silvery, clear tone, such as is pro- 
duced by the white African light, illuminates this long, 
frieze-like canvas, which remains one of the artist’s 
best works. 

Algeria also inspired Horace with biblical subjects 
for a few easel paintings, in which the characters of 
the Old Testament are clothed in Arab burnouses, as 
more probable than the classical costume in which the 
great masters have clothed them. The unchanging 
East preserves its customs almost eternally, and the 
patriarchs could not have been very different from 
modern Bedouins ; but this change, in spite of its archa- 
ological probability, proved unpleasant to eyes accus- 
tomed to the conventional draperies and ornaments of 
vague origin in which art has always clothed these 
respectable and distinguished figures. The Bedouin 
quaintness is not very objectionable, however, in suck 


> 


subjects as “ Thamar ” or “*‘ Rebecca and Eleazar.’’ 


277 


cho che abe oho ho abe be abe oe abe abe oe che che oe cleo oe baa abe fe hee 


eBe Fe oFs CFs eee ove One wie wre CON 


PORTRATWS’ OF) Gap ee 


““Swan-necked Edith,’ ‘Judith and Holofernes,”’ 
““ Raphael meeting Michael Angelo on the Steps of 
the Vatican,’ “The Pope borne by the Segestaria,” 
belong to the historical style of painting properly so- 
called, and in them the individual qualities of the artist 
have been unable to display themselves as freely as in 
his other works. His clean, rapid, facile manner does 
not make up for the lack of style. 

Never was a reputation so widespread as that of 
Horace Vernet, who is better known to foreigners than 
any painter of our modern school, while his works 
fetch large prices abroad. His well filled career has 
lacked no form of glory, and he closes in triumphal 
fashion the illustrious dynasty of the Vernets. Of an 
eminently French nature, made to delight the French, 


he will live with Scribe, Auber, and Beranger. 


278 


che che obs ofr che ob abe ab abe abs cb aborebe fs 


i 
ie 
= 
i 
Te 
oe 
ib 
Sie 
ip 
it 


PoE iin of The Day 


the te che che oe oe oh abe oho abe chee choc obec robe che chets 


= OTe FO OTS ate OF RY OT! OHO IS 


EUGENE DELACROIX 


Born IN 1798 — DIED IN 1863 


UGENE DELACROIX was scarcely sixty- 
kK five, and he looked younger, for his thick 
black hair had not a single silver thread 

in it. He was not robust, but his fine, energetic, and 
nervous temperament gave promise of longer life. In- 
tellectual strength made up for physical strength in 
him, and he was thus able to indulge in ceaseless activ- 
ity. No career was better filled out than his own, 
although it was broken off so abruptly. Delacroix lived 
as long as Titian, if his years are reckoned by his works. 


> 


He was a pupil of Guerin, the painter of “* Dido ”’ and 
“¢ Clytemnestra,” who had also Géricault and Ary Schef- 
fer for pupils. He exhibited for the first time at the 
Salon of 1822. ‘The picture was his “ Dante and Vir- 
gil,” which his master, startled by the tremendous dash 
of the work, advised him not to send in. ‘This picture, 
which broke away so abruptly from academic tradition, 


called out enthusiastic praise on the one hand and vio- 


a9 


ch feo oe oo ce oo che he fe cbr ocfe obec ce ce ebeco ade abe abel 
PORTRAITS OF (THEW 


lent opposition on the other, and marked the opening of 
that long battle which lasted as long as the artist lived. 
The Romanticist movement, spreading from poetry 
into art, adopted Eugene Delacroix and defended him 
against the attacks of the rival camp. M. Thiers, who 
was then the art critic on the “¢ Constitutionnel,” wrote 
about this picture, so much praised and so much criti- 
cised, these remarkable lines: “ At the sight of this 
painting, I am filled with an indefinable remembrance 
of the great masters. I find in it that wild, ardent, but 
natural power which yields without effort to its own 
impulse.” As a matter of fact, Eugéne Delacroix 
was henceforth a master. He was no one’s imitator, 
and, without having to grope, he had entered into 
possession of his own individuality. Whatever his 
detractors may say, he did introduce into French paint- 
ing a new element, — colour, in the widest meaning of 
the word. ‘The ‘ Massacre of Scio,” which was 
exhibited in the Salon of 1824, filled up the measure 
of the wrath of the Classical school. ‘That scene of 
desolation, reproduced in its full horror without a 
thought of conventionality,—— such, in a word, as it 
must have occurred,— evoked an outburst of fury which 


it is dificult to understand to-day when one marks the 


280 


eee Lene LN RR tu 
dle ke oh che ok oh hk he he cece ehe chloe obe ele ade abe heck 
EUGENE DELACROIX 


passion, the depth of sentiment, the intensely brilliant. 
colour, the thoroughly free and vigorous execution of 
the painting. From that day, the jury often refused the 
paintings of the innovating artist, but Eugéne Delacroix 
was not a man easily discouraged; he returned to the 
charge with the obstinacy of a man who is conscious 
of his own genius. “The Death of the Doge Marino 
Faliero,” ‘Christ in the Garden of Olives,” “ Faust 
and Mephistopheles,’ “ Justinian,” 
‘“« The Battle of the Giaour and the Pacha,’’ followed 


each other amid a storm of praise and insults. 


‘¢ Sardanapalus,”’ 


To Delacroix was applied the epithet invented for 


> 


Shakespeare, “ drunken savage,”’ and assuredly nothing 
better could be invented to mark an artist brought up 
in the intimate frequentation of ancient and modern 
poets, one who is a writer himself, a passionate dilet- 
tante, a man of the world, a charming talker, cultivated, 
with the keenest feeling for harmony. 

After the Revolution of 1830, Eugéne Delacroix 
painted “Liberty guiding the People on the Barri- 
cades,’’ as a replica of Auguste Barbier’s famous 
iambics. [hen came the “ Massacre of the Bishop 
of Liege,” “‘ The Tigers,” ‘ Boissy d’Anglas,” “ ‘The 
Battle of Nancy,” the “ Women of Algiers,” — a mar- 


“281 


ED 


ches obec oe oho oo be ob aber cbecde ecko cde obeche a obec abe has 


PORT RAYTS:) OF Pot epi 


vellously varied, poetic, passionate, richly coloured 
series of works which I need not detail at greater 
length in these few lines. 

Better understood and better received, Eugéne Dela- 
croix was enabled to turn his great and mighty talent 
to the decoration of large surfaces. He was commis- 
sioned to paint the Throne Room and the Library of 
the Chamber of Deputies, the cupola of the Peers’ 
Library, the ceiling of the gallery of Apollo, a hall in 
the Hotel de Ville, and finally the Chapel of the Holy 
Angels at Saint-Sulpice. No one better understood 
mural and decorative painting than he did; he exhibited 
qualities of the highest order in composition, and coy- 
ered the buildings intrusted to his brush with a magni- 
ficent vestment flat in tone like a fresco and as velvety 
as tapestry. His great works did not prevent his still 
sending to the Salon numerous masterpieces: ‘ Saint 
Sebastian,” “The Battle of Taillebourg,’”’ ‘ Medea,” 
“The Convulsionists of Tangiers,” “ A Jewish Wed- 
ding in Morocco,” ‘The Boat of Don Juan,” “ Trajan’s 
Justice,” ‘* The Entry of the Crusaders into Constanti- 
nople,’ "The Rape of, Rebecca;” “The Ascenguar 
Calvary,” and many another painting, the meanest of 


which bears the unmistakable mark of the master. 


282 


che robe abe ob oh ake oe arable ab cece feo cb fae oe bo obo abe ele 


ore wee 


PUGHNEPDELACRODX 


The Universal Exposition in 1855 proved a veritable 
triumph for Delacroix; his collected works appeared in 
all their splendour. The most obstinate opponents of 
his glory could not resist this harmonious, brilliant, 
splendid collection of compositions so varied, so full 
of fire and genius. ‘The artist received the highest 
award, and was appointed a commander in the Legion 
of Honour. Yet this great master, whose colour 
stands comparison with that of Titian, Paul Veronese, 
Rubens, and Rembrandt, was not elected a member of 
the Institute before 1858. 

Eugéne Delacroix was fortunate enough to bea prey 
to the fever of his time, and to represent its excited 
ideas with singular poetry, force, and intensity. He 
drew his inspiration from Shakespeare, Goethe, Byron, 
and Walter Scott, but freely, like a master who finds a 
work within a work, and who remains the equal of 
those whom he translates. Eckermann has recorded 
the admiring words of the Weimar Jove, when, at over 
eighty years of age, he looked over the illustrations to 
“Faust.” The German poet had never understood 
his work so well as when he saw it reproduced in the 


lithographs of the young French master. 


283 


Born IN 1809—DIED IN 1864 


IPPOLYTE FLANDRIN kept constantly 
H within the high sphere of art, and the 
proofs of his genius are to be sought for 

on the walls of churches. He was wholly worthy to 
have sanctuaries for studios, for never was a more 
religious inspiration sustained by purer, juster, and 
more elevated talent than his. The beloved and fer- 
vent disciple of an austere master, towards whom he 
always remained in the attitude of a pupil, although he 
had attained to glory for many a year, he incessantly 
strove to realise the ideal he had learned from his 
teaching. He was not satisfied with seeking the 
beautiful, he wanted to express holiness; the purified 
human form was constantly used by him to render the 
divine idea. There was in him something of the ten- 
der timidity, the virginal delicacy, and the seraphic 
etherealness of Fra Beato Angelico, but the simplicity 


of his sentiment was backed by deep knowledge. 


284 


che ctr che choo oe abe oe be ale fe abe cafe ae bea ce fae coe oe 


ore Ge wre Ore wre ove 


AGPPRPOLYTER FLIAND REN 


Practically and genuinely pious, he brought into reli- 
gious painting an element exceedingly rare in these 
days, — faith. He believed sincerely in what he 
painted, and did not try to realise the desired situation 
by factitious enthusiasm; he was in his element, it 
was the air which he breathed; he soared in it with 
well trained and confident wing. No modern painter 
has come nearer the old masters without falling into 
archaic imitation. 

Every one remembers the sensation produced in 
1832 by his ‘“‘ Theseus recognised by his Father at 
the Banquet,” which won the grand prize of Rome, 
and which already proved that the young painter pos- 
sessed well developed and promising talent. Hippolyte 
Flandrin painted during his stay in Italy, at greater or 
less intervals, ‘‘ Saint Clare healing the Blind,” “ A¥s- 
chylus writing his Tragedies,” “ Dante in the Circle 
of the Envious,” ‘ Jesus and Little Children.” On 
his return to Paris he painted the “ Saint Louis dictat- 
ing his Orders,’”? the “ Mater Dolorosa,’ ‘“ Napoleon 
Legislator,” and several other meritorious works. But 
in spite of the art which he exhibited in these, it may 
be affirmed that he had not yet found his real line, — 
mural and religious painting. “The Chapel of Saint 


285 


peeebheeebeeebetbetebete 
POIRTRA-ITS OF YTRR DAY 


John, in the Church of Saint-Séverin, is notable for 
the austere simplicity, the masterly sobriety, and the 
neglect of empty effects which are characteristic of 
painting associated with architecture and forming one 
with it. Never, perhaps, did the artist draw more 
admirably and firmly. Unfortunately the inferior 
quality of the material has damaged these noble com- 
positions in several places, and before long they will 
have scaled away and vanished. ‘The vast frieze of 
Saint-Vincent de Paul, on which passes the long pro- 
cession of all the characters in the “* Golden Legend,” 
the martyred saints, the holy confessors, the blessed 
virgins, has won the name of Christian Pantheon by 
the beauty of the style, the rhythm of the groups, the 
arrangement of the figures. It is indeed Greek art 
christianised, and which would do honour to the Frieze 
of the Parthenon if the building were changed to a 
church. Saint-Germain-des-Prés received from Hippo- 
lyte Flandrin a vestment of admirable paintings which 
cover the choir and the Romanesque nave in such a 
way that one no longer regrets their ancient splendour. 
The indefatigable artist, forgetful of the fact that his 
labour, greater than human strength could bear, was 


draining away his life, painted also the church of Saint- 


286 


che oe che abe obs ole obs ale ably ol chro obs oe olla ole ob obrcbe ols obs abe ole 


Pate OL Yana WAN DIR] 


Paul at Nimes and the apse of the church of Ainay at 
Lyons, — his masterpiece, say the pious visitors who 
are fortunate enough to have seen it. 

Let me add that Hippolyte Flandrin was, like all 
great masters, like Albert Durer, Holbein, Titian, Vel- 
asquez, an excellent portrait painter. It is sufficient 
to recall, among his more recent portraits, those of 
Count Walewski, Prince Napoleon, and the Emperor, 
which are so masterly and so admirable in likeness. 
Into the portraits of women he introduced a modest 
grace, an exquisite distinction, a peaceful serenity, the 
effect of which was both deep and irresistible. No 
one better painted the portraits of honest women and 
in a more chaste and reserved fashion. How great 
was the success of that delightful portrait of a young 
girl holding a flower in her hand, called “The Young 
Girl with the Carnation,” just as one speaks of Raph- 
ael’s madonnas as the “ Madonna with the Veil,” or 
the “¢ Madonna della Sedia!”’ The gentle painter with 
the angelic name would willingly sign that charming 
canvas of the purest of his admirers if he could return 


to life, 


cheb cb-bachdbadechedlcbech deck ooh 
raits of 126 mm 


abe ob obe ob obe abe oade obec cbs ahead baobab oe robe 


GAVARNI 


Born IN 1801 — DIED IN 1866 


P “HE ancient world still so masters us from 
the depth of the ages that we scarcely 
have the feeling of our surrounding civili- 

sation. In spite of the efforts of Paris and London, 

Athens and Rome remain the capitals of thought. 

Every year there issue from colleges thousands of 

young Greeks and Romans who know nothing of 

modern affairs. More than any one I admire the 
persistent force of thought, the eternal power of 
beauty ; but is it not strange that art should reflect | 
contemporary times so little? Classical studies in- 
spire a profound disdain for modern manners, habits, 
and customs, which are so rarely reproduced on monu- 
ments, statues, bassi-relievi, medals, paintings, furniture, 


and bronzes that future chroniclers will find it very 


dificult to restore them or to reproduce them in a 
‘‘ Paris in the Days of Napoleon III.” What idea, 


for instance, could people have, in the year 3000, of 


288 


KEELE Lee ett ttd tts 
GAVARNI 


our fashionable ladies, of our famous beauties, those 
we love and for whom we have indulged in greater or 
less follies, even if the larger portion of the works 
of our masters had not then disappeared ? 

Ingres is an Athenian, a pupil of Apelles and 
Phidias, whose soul has evidently mistaken its age 
and come into the world twenty-four hundred years 
too late. His paintings might be placed in the Pina- 
cothek of the Propylaa; his portraits, antique in style 
and of no particular time, become eternal. Delacroix 
scarcely touches a subject outside of history, the East, 
or Shakespeare; scarcely among his numerous works 
does one come across a contemporary type; without 
going back to antiquity like Ingres, he goes back to 
the Venetians and the Flemings, and is modern in his 
nervousness and passion only. He has composed his 
own microcosm by a sort of internal vision, and one 
could swear that he had not once looked around him. 
What I say of these two illustrious masters, who with 
us represent the two sides of art, is equally true of all 
the others. The realistic attempts made in these 
latter days seek an ugly ideal rather than the accurate 
reproduction of nature. The few true types of genre 


paintings are almost all taken from the rustic classes ; 


19 289 


the oe cheat abe abe abe be be a arabe cde abe cba be abr be cb bebe be foals 


PORTRAEPRS (OVA DEE ee 


and it may be said in perfect security that neither the 
men nor the women of the world, nor almost any of 
the numerous members of the society of the nine- 
teenth century have left any trace in the higher art of 
our day. 

Unquestionably the Venus of Milo is a wonderful 
statue, lovingly polished by the kisses of centuries; 
it has the supremest beauty, it is the most perfect 
effort of human genius to express the ideal, and I my- 
self worship that sublime torso, the divinity of which 
no one can deny. But have not Parisian women their 
charms? Could not sculpture, if it chose to do so, 
discover the fair lines of their elegant bodies under the 
cashmere, the fold of which outlines the roundest neck 
and which with its fringe kisses the heel of a pretty 
shoe? ‘The drapery of Polyhymnia clings in no more 
supple manner than these great Indian shawls to the 
shoulders and the backs of well-bred women. Henri 
Heine, who so thoroughly understood plasticity, was 
not mistaken on this point. He would follow a 
woman draped in her shawl as if she were a Greek 
goddess in a Parian chlamyd. As for Balzac, he cer- 
tainly preferred to all the female deities of Olympus, 


even to Venus “adorably exhausted,” as Goethe says, 


290 


beteeeteeetttttetettttes 
GAVARNI | 


Madame Firmiani, Madame de Beauséant, Madame de 
Mortsauf, the Duchess de Maufrigneuse, the Princess 
Cadignan, Lady Dudley, Madame Marneffe, even, per- 
haps. Are these lovely faces, of a rosy pallor, framed 
in by their pretty bonnets like angels’ heads smiling 
in an ideal flower, with wavy or smooth hair which 
Praxiteles himself would not disturb if he had to copy 
them in marble, — are they unworthy of being repro- 
duced in a medal? Does not the dressing of the hair 
for a ball afford an intelligent artist every possible 
resource, — pearls, flowers, feathers, sprays, nets, knots, 
bands, shining bandeaux, long curls, fluffy crimps, heavy 
chignons twisted like the horn of Ammon, or negli- 
gently tied? The dresses, in spite of the passing 
exaggeration of flounces and of crinoline, appear, by 
the richness of the brocade, of the watered silk, of the 
satin, and by the frou-frou of the taffeta, the transpar- 
ency of the lace, of the gauze, of the tulle, of the 
tarletan, the brilliancy and the suaveness and the 
variety of the tones, to invite a colourist’s brush and 
to offer to him a palette of seductive tints. But the 
colourist does not look at these bouquets of tone which 
bloom at promenades, at parties, at receptions, in the 


boxes at the theatres; he prefers to dip his brush tmto 


291 


bLbbbebhhbbtbttebtehde tt dd dh tdh 
POR TRA UES) © F. fier i, tae 


the red gold of Rembrandt, the mat silver of Paul 
Veronese, or the blazing purple of Rubens; while the 
sculptor strips of her garments on some public square 
a shivering nymph, who is ashamed and dismayed at 
finding herself nude. 

Leaving the Greeks and the Romans on one side, 
Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, Andrea del Sarto, Titian 
have preserved the beauties of their day, eternal mem- 
ories, which poets gaze at dreamily in the galleries, 
their hearts filled with an irresistible retrospective 
desire. ‘There is scarce a woman of mark of the six- 
teenth century, princess or courtesan, grand duke’s or 
painter’s mistress, whose image has not come down 
to us made divine by art. Our day will hand down 
nothing of the sort to future ages. Our artists seem 
to dread women. The fear of falling into a false 
classical idea has urged them to be vigorous and char- 
acteristic and to seek violent effects; few have troubled 
themselves about modern beauty. To find traces of 
it, the future will have to consult the portraits painted 
by certain fashionable artists who sought rather to 
satisfy the taste of society people than to fulfil the strict 
requirements of art, painters such as Winterhalter, 


Dubuffe, father and son, Pérignon, and some others. 


292 


abe obs oh che he abe che be he che ate creche abe che cba cba cbc che oh chook 


It seems to me that Vidal, if he had not let himself 
drift into graceful and coquettish fancies, could have 
rendered the impression of delicate beauty and of 
dainty elegance which a society woman setting out for 
a ball and drawing on her gloves before her mirror 
makes upon one. 

This preamble, which may strike the reader as some- 
what long, is intended to bring out fully the originality 
of Gavarni and the value of his work, scattered in 
books and albums, in collections and detached engrav- 
ings. He has no predecessor or rival in our own day ; 
he has the not slight glory of being frankly, exclusively, 
absolutely modern. Like Balzac, with whom he has 
more than one characteristic in common, he has also 
produced his Human Comedy, less broad and less all- 
embracing no doubt, but very complete in its way, 
although slightly exaggerated; for while the nib of the 
pen runs on the paper, the point of the lithographic 
pencil spreads on the stone. Gavarni, an admirable 
draughtsman and an admirable anatomist in his own 
way, is absolutely careless of the traditional sculptural 
forms; he makes men, and not statues dressed up. 
No one knows better than he does the wretched frame 


of our bodies wasted by civilisation; he is acquainted 


<5 


abe ae obo obe abe abe ob oe a a ecle chee cba ble of a eo beak 
PORTRAITS) OF OE Dae 


i 


with the leanness, the wretchedness, the bald-headed- 
ness of Parisian dandies; their grotesque stoutness, 
their heavy wrinkles, their big feet, their bossy knees ; 
the bandy legs of protectors, of bankers, of so-called 
serious men; and he dresses up all these people just 
as Chevreuil or Renard might do it, With a stroke 
of the pencil he gives an overcoat the cut of a sack; 
he puts straps on a pair of trousers; he throws back 
the lapels of an overcoat; he opens or buttons a waist- 
coat; he smooths or roughens the black silk of a stove- 
pipe hat, he puts on gloves, or sticks an eyeglass in the 
eye; gives a curve to the stick and makes the watch- 
charms rattle; gives cloth a worn or well-brushed 
look; makes the appearance stylish or vulgar, and 
gives to the elbow, to the outline, to the waist of each 
garment the characteristic fold which reveals affecta- 
tion, habit, vice, and which relates a whole life. 

If you wish to find the Parisian of 1830 nowadays, 
with his costume, his coat, his attitude and physiog- 
nomy, truthful and without caricature, but merely 
touched up with that clever stroke which is the very 
spirit of the artist, glance through Gavarni’s work. It 
will soon be as full of information as the engravings 


of Gravelot, Eisen, Moreau, and the water-colours of 


2.94 


che chs oe he che ake he che eh ale che chee oe ae oe tn che cha eee oe he 
GAVARNI 


Baudoin in the last century. But Gavarni’s greatest 
glory is not merely that he has understood the Parisian, 
who is considered impossible by contemporary art; he 
has understood the Parisian woman, and not only un- 
derstood but loved her, which is the true and only way 
to understand. You may be sure he did not trouble 
much about the figures on the Parthenon, the Venus of 
Milo, or the Diana of Gabies, and that he discovered a 
very satisfying ideal in the little perky face of the 
Parisian woman, whose pretty ugliness is itself grace- 
ful. What if the nose is not absolutely straight, the 
cheeks round rather than oval, the mouth curling a 
little at the corners, letting the tip of the tongue shew; 
the neck slender and lacking in its plump flesh the 
three folds of Aphrodite’s collar, the waist too much 
drawn in by the corsets, making the hips stand out 
overmuch, — what does all that matter? It is not a 
nymph of antiquity that he proposes to draw, but a 
woman who passes by and whom you are following ; 
he is not making lithographs from the round, but 
from life. 

Long before Alexandre Dumas the younger, Gavarni 
had sketched the Lady with the Camellias, and told in 


his drawings and letterings the story of the demi-monde ; 


295 


de oboe oe ok oh cheb oh che chcbeddeecheebe ch cheek ch beak 


ore GES CFO CFO BHO WTO OTE 


PORT RALTS (OF) (EU ae 


and how cleverly, with what easy dash, with what 
perfect good-breeding! Mademoiselle de Beauper- 
thuis, M. Coquardeau, and Arthur have become known 
to everybody ; they are living characters in the eternal 
comedy. The /orette, thanks to Roqueplan who chris- 
tened her and Gavarni who noted her changing appear- 
ance, will go down to the most distant posterity. She — 
is neither the Greek hetaira, nor the Roman courtesan, 
nor the impure woman of the Regency, nor the kept 
woman of the Empire, nor the grisette of the Restora- 
tion; she is the special product of our busy ways, the 
free-and-easy mistress of an age which has not time to 
fall in love and which is greatly bored at home. At 
her house you may smoke, stand on your head, stick 
your feet up on the mantelpiece, say whatever you 
please, even coarse pleasantries and low equivoques ; 
you are no more restricted than among men, and you 
leave when you feel like it, which is the highest pleas- 
ure. And then, after all, /orettes are jolly girls. “They 
have all been, more or less, supernumeraries, actresses, 
music teachers ; they know the slang of sport, of the 
studio, of the stage; they can dance splendidly, play a 
waltz, sing a little bit, and roll a cigarette like a Span- 


ish smuggler, some even can actually spell; but 


296 


RLALKEAL ESSA Attettseese 
GAVARNI 


their chief talent is playing patience. As for their 
lustral toilet, the bayaderes of the Benares pagodas are 
not more careful to descend the white marble steps 
which lead to the Ganges and to wash within the 
sacred river. As regards their dress, it is only the 
thorough-bred Parisian who can tell, by some excess of 
luxury or some slight neglect, that it is not that of a 
woman of the world; foreigners are almost always 
taken in, even Russians, who are so very French. 
Sometimes they are not dressed in just the latest 
fashion, sometimes in the fashion which is going to be. 
They can wear anything, — watered silk and velvet 
and feathers in their bonnets, and lace capes, and boots 
which fit the foot, and men’s cuffs and the cloth riding- 
habit, — everything except the long shawl ; therein lies 
the superiority of the honest woman. No Lady with 
the Camellias, no Marble Heart, no dorette can resist the 
temptation of somewhat stretching the shawl with 
her elbows in order to show off her waist and to sug- 
gest very gently the rich outline of the hips. Gavarni 
understands all these shades and expresses them with 
the quick, easy stroke of a pencil which is always sure 
of what it is doing. With him we enter richly fur- 


nished boudoirs full of china vases and of old Sévres, in 


297 


ooh oe obec be co che oho fe he ce chee oe abe cee be shee 


PORTRAITS OFA THE Daw 


which flash Venetian mirrors and candelabra with 
twisted arms; where we see lying on a divan the god- 
dess of the place, half dressed in a long wrapper with a 
loosened girdle, twisting her slipper at the end of her 
bare foot, and blowing from her rosy lips the smoke of 
the papelito, while a female friend tells her some funny 
stories or a gentleman who is more or less of a rider 
bites the tip of his stick while churning ever a declara- 
tion of love. ‘The furniture, the costumes, the acces- 
sories, the fashions, —all are rendered with perfect 
propriety, with intimate modernity, which no one 
possesses in the same degree. ‘The gesture is correct, 
accurate, and especially of the day; that is just the 
way we rise, sit down, hold our hat, put on our gloves, 
bow, open and shut doors ; you can see there is a living 
body under the overcoats, the cloaks, the frock coats, 
which is not always the case under the pseudo-antique 
draperies of historical painters. For, as I have said 
before, Gavarni is a great anatomist. “he woman of 
the present day, not to be found in our paintings, lives 
in the historical lithographs of our artist, with her 
coquettish mannerism, her witty gracefulness, her 
dainty elegance, her problematic but irresistible beauty. 


And all those faces are so charming! How those eyes 


298 


ob baobab oe oh chee oh abe shah choad be bee ob a byob boo 


CFS ame CFS OFS BFS He GE sie BTe UTE 


GAVARNI 


flash! how delightful are those tip-tilted noses! what 
pretty dimples for Cupids to hide in! what well shaped 
chins, softly rounded above a bow of ribbon! what 
fresh cheeks caressed by a curl of hair! What delight- 
ful realities and what charming shams under the mass 
of lace, cambric, and taffeta! Certainly there are 
women more beautiful, nobler, and purer, and all this 
is not the supreme expression of feminine beauty in 
our day; but Gavarni has none the less reproduced 
one of the profiles of modern beauty. Is not Gavarni 
the painter and the historian of that Carnival of Paris, 
which only lacks the Piazza, the Piazzetta, and the 
Grand Canal to surpass the old-time Carnival of Ven- 
ice? While that infernal gallop —a regular round 
of the Sabbath of Pleasure — is whirling to the sound 
of a tremendous orchestra, a man stands there leaning 
against a pillar, looking, watching, noting, and to- 
morrow the débardeuses in velvet trousers with lace 
flounces, broad silk girdles setting off their waists, fine 
cambric chemises with rosy transparencies, and their 
high kicking, will be reproduced upon the lithographic 
stone; the dominoes will whisper under the satin and 
lace of the mask; the white pzerrots will wave their 


long sleeves, flapping their wings like penguins; the 


299 


beck che fee che ook dh che debe deade cde cbecke cle ceae de dece 
PORTRAIUS! OFLGAE Pee 


varnished cardboard noses of serious men will be seen 
at full length; the bells of Folly will sparkle and tin- 
kle ; the plumes will stand up on the Roman helmets ; 
~ the necklaces of civilised savages will rattle. Through 
the dazzling whirl, the misty light of the chandeliers, the 
tumult of voices and orchestra, the artist has noted 
every type, every turn, every face; he inspires all the 
masks with his wit, even if they are stupid; he sums 
up with a witty remark the jest of the foyer, he trans- 
lates into a droll inscription the hoarse sound of the 
rumour; and then takes his pierrettes, pierrots, debar- 
deurs, debardeuses, dominoes, and fashionables to the 
Café Anglais and the Maison Dorée and intoxicates 
them with his fun, which is more exhilarating and 
sparkling than champagne. 

Who is there that is not acquainted with his “ Spoiled 
Children,” and especially with his “Spoiled Parents,” 
— those tell everything, these take the poetry out of 
everything, —‘“ What People Say and What They 
Think,” “ Masks and Faces,” “ Worms Will Bite,” 
‘Returned from Somewhere,” and all the series, so 
capitally drawn, so thoroughly philosophical, which one 
is never tired of looking over? The explanations 


added to each drawing are often a comedy or a vaude- 


300 


ville in themselves; they are always as good as a 
maxim of La Rochefoucauld’s. How many a time 
have composers of vaudevilles and reviews borrowed 
from these clever sayings! ‘There are very few plays 
on which Gavarni, did he choose to do so, could not 
claim a royalty. 

Do not suppose that because he has drawn _particu- 
larly the Bohemia of pleasure and sketched the curious 
manners of that world into which the most austere 
have set foot, Gavarni lacks the moral sense. Glance 
through the album called “ The Aged Lorettes,”’ and 
you will see that his lithographic pencil punishes vice as 
much as does Hogarth’s brush. ‘The frayed petticoats, 
the worn folds of plaid skirts, the checkered handker- 
chiefs, the pitiful shoes that let in the water, the wan 
faces, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes surely compensate 
for the many-flounced gowns, the long cashmere shawls 
that fell to the ground, the bonnets and feathers, the 
red-heeled shoes, and all the long vanished insolent 
luxury. These poor girls may be forgiven for having 
been pretty, proud, and triumphant. May the rice 
powder rest lightly upon them ! 

“Thomas Vireloque,’ although somewhat misan- 


thropical, is good company ; Diogenes, Rabelais, and 


301 


HLEEEAELALLSLAAALALAL LL LAL ELS 


PORT RAI FS? OF F DHE Dia 


Sancho Panza would nod approvingly at more than one 
of his aphorisms. This type, created by Gavarni, will 
certainly live. 

In this rapid sketch I have not even endeavoured to 
describe the multiform work of the master; I have 
simply tried to mark the chief features of that artistic 
physiognomy, so original, so living, so modern, which 
criticism, too much occupied with supposedly serious 
talents, has not studied with the attention which it 


certainly deserved. 


The name which Gavarni made illustrious was not 
his own; he was really called Sulpice-Paul Chevallier, 
and he had borrowed from one of his first publications 
that graceful pseudonym which so thoroughly suited 
his light, elegant, and free talent. “The early part of 
Gavarni’s career was hard, and he had turned thirty 
before he managed to make his mark. I knew him 
about that time. He was a handsome young fellow with 
abundant fair, curly hair, very careful in his dress, very 
fashionable in his attire, somewhat English in his accu- 
rate way of dressing, and having in the highest degree 
the feeling of modern elegance. He never worked but 


in a black velvet jacket, well-cut trousers with straps, 


302 


£Léeeetebee¢etore 


+ 
th 
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ih 
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a fine cambric shirt with frill, and patent-leather shoes 
with red heels, — exactly as he may be seen in his 
portrait drawn by himself, seen from the back, on the 
cover of one of Hetzel’s illustrated publications. He 
looked rather like a dandy who dabbled in art than 
like an artist, in the somewhat vague meaning of 
that word; and yet what an obstinate, what an inces- 
sant, what a fertile worker he was! An immense 
building might be erected with the lithographic stones 
upon which he has drawn. | 

It may be affirmed that Gavarni, although very well 
known, very popular, and even famous, was not fully 
appreciated, any more than Daumier, Raffet, and Gus- 
tave Doré, brilliant as is the reputation of the latter. 
The French like sterling talents, and are strangely 
mistrustful of fertility. How is it possible to believe 
in the merit of multiplied works which you come 
across every day either in a newspaper or in a maga- 
zine, especially when they are living, clever, drawn 
from our very manners, full of fire, go, and dash, origi- 
nal in thought, conception, and execution, owing noth- 
ing to antiquity, expressing our loves, our aversions, 
our tastes, our caprices, our peculiarities, showing the 
clothes in which we dress, the types of gracefulness 


3°35 


tetebtebbetebtttddtdttttttd 
PORTRAITS OF. 7 he see 


and of coquetry which please us, and the very sur- 
roundings amid which our lives are passed? All that 
does not seem serious, and a man who would admire a 
naked Ajax, a Theseus, a Philoctetes, would willingly 
look down upon Gavarni’s Parisians. 

No one knew better than Gavarni how to draw a 
black coat and a modern body, and that is not an easy 
matter. Just ask the painters of high life. Humann 
admired him. Under that coat the artist with three 
strokes of his pencil could put a human armature with 
accurate joints, easy movements, —a living being, in a 
word, capable of turning around, of coming, of going. 
Very often Delacroix looked with a thoughtful glance 
at these apparently trivial drawings that were so thor- 
oughly true. He was surprised at the perfect posing 
of the figures, the cohesion of the limbs, at the atti- 
tudes so cleanly drawn, at the simple and natural 
mimicry. Every year made Gavarni’s drawing easier, 
freer, and broader; neither the pencil nor the litho- 
graphic stone seemed to present any obstacles to him; 
he did with them as he pleased. 

In that nature of his, which was so peculiarly origi- 
nal, there was, besides the artist and the philosopher, 


the writer, who in a couple of lines at the foot of his 


304 


kktbkeeetbtettttttttb tt 
GAVARNI 


drawings, wrote more comedies, vaudevilles, and studies 
of manners than all the other authors of our time 
taken together. Gavarni was the wit-maker of his 
day ; most of the witticisms of these latter years have 
come from him; his influence, though unconfessed, 
has been very great. He invented a more amusing, 
more fantastic, and more picturesque carnival than the 
ancient carnival of Venice. His types are creations 
copied by reality, which later imitated his drawings. It 
is he who imparted the life of art to Bohemians, stu- 
dents, painters, /orettes; he revealed the treacheries of 
women, the terrible artlessness of children, what people 
say and what they think, not like a morose preacher, 
after the fashion of Hogarth, but like an indulgent 
moralist who is acquainted with human frailty and is 
forgiving to it. 

And yet it would be a great mistake to suppose that 
Gavarni is merely graceful, witty, and elegant. His 
“¢ Aged Lorettes,”’ with their comically gloomy legends, 
are positively terrible. “Thomas Vireloque, the tramp 
whose garments are torn by every bramble, casts with 
his one eye as clear, as deep, as single a glance upon life 
and humanity as ever did Rabelais, Swift, or Voltaire. 


Gavarni brougbt back terrifying pictures, sinister 


20 305 


she obs ob ob oh oh be che dh che che deck hecho ecbe cheb cbec hbk 
PORTRAITS? OF) GPHAE Dee 


phantoms, more hideous and more painful than the 
visions of a nightmare, from the poor wretches he 
observed in Saint Giles during his stay in London. 

His way of working was peculiar. He used to 
begin trifling on the stone without having any settled 
subject or plan. Little by little the figures began to 
show, assumed the appearance of life, and were pro- 
vided with features; they went and came, busy at 
something or another. Gavarni listened to them, tried 
to make out what they were saying, just as when you 
see a stranger walking and gesticulating along the 
boulevard. ‘Then, when he had got the correct legend, 
he wrote, or rather, dictated it. 

For a few years past Gavarni, although still as much 
sought after, had somewhat given up drawing. His 
mind, always fond of exact sciences, was turning 
towards higher mathematics, and he gave himself up 
to the solution of difficult problems for which he found 
new and curious solutions. He took great pleasure in 
that work in which numbers grow infinitely and _pro- 
duce most amazing combinations. He was not one 
of those chimerical seekers after the squaring of the 
circle or perpetual motion, but a sound mathematician 


prized by the Institute. 


306 


Gane AR NI ! 


He died in that Auteuil villa in which I was his 
neighbour some twenty years ago, and the garden of 
which, since then cut up by the building of the railway, 
contained only evergreen trees, cedars, pines, hemlocks, 
thuyas, box, holly, green oaks, ivy, and firs, so that the 
sombre verdure made it look like a cemetery garden. 
It appears that that collection of evergreens was unri- 
valled, and the artist, who was also a horticulturist, 


prized it very highly. 


Shy 


tibet bbtbbttbtbbbbbbebdd 
Zits of the oe 
dock ke bee oh checks oh ob cera cbede checker beck oe ec 


DAVID D’ANGERS 


BoRN IN 1789 — DIED in 1856 


T is possible to collect in one’s library all the 
works of one’s favourite poet or author, for 
printing enables a sufficient number of copies to 

be struck off to satisfy all admirers. But an artist’s 
statues and paintings, necessarily unique, are scat- 
tered, adorn distant museums, are in places which 
often one knows not of, are buried within. some 
inaccessible collection, are sometimes destroyed by 
fire, by the action of time, by carelessness, by enmity, 
or in some other way. However careful one may 
be in following the career of a sculptor or a painter, 
some of his work escapes attention, and although 
I thought that I knew David d’Angers’, I was 
surprised, on turning over the engravings of his 
works, at the great number of things new to me 
which it contained; for David was a hard worker. 
It is amazing how much clay he kneaded, how much 


marble he carved, how much bronze he moulded, 


308 


hb bbbhbbedbbebebebabed bbe 
DAVID D’ANGERS | 


from 1810 to 1855; his statues are almost numerous 
enough to form a people. 

In 1815 David was at Rome as a prize winner. 
His “ Dying Orthryadas” had won him a second 
prize, and his bas-relief of “‘ The Death of Epaminon- 
das”’ was the means of sending him to the Eternal 
City. In spite of its necessarily classic style, the 
‘“¢Orthryadas”’ already exhibits traces of originality, 
and the carefully studied forms prove David’s desire for 
truth. ‘The bas-relief of the ‘¢‘ Death of Epaminondas ” 
has more life than is usually seen in that class of com- 
positions, in which the student, in order to render his 
severe judges favourable to himself, seeks correctness 
more than any other merit. 

The “ Nereid bearing the Helmet of Achilles,’ a 
marble bas-relief, exhibits true Greek grace in the 
figure. This piece of work, which was sent from 
Rome and which is dated 1815, suggests that young 
David (then twenty-three years of age) was feeling the 
influence of antiquity exclusively. The masterpieces 
of Greek and Roman statuary must have impressed 
him deeply and have carried the day over his own ten- 
dencies. The Nereid, seen from behind lying on a 


dolphin, raises with one hand the helmet of Achilles, 


399 


LLELAA ALAA ALS epee eebsetetee 
PORTPRAIES © Pi TD TE pian 


and with the other holds the end of a floating drapery, 
the folds of which are broken and fringed like the foam 
curl of a wave. ‘The line, which, springing from the 
bent waist, swells with the hip and is prolonged to the 
toe, is lovely in its elegance. As a companion to this 
figure, David blocked out a *¢ Nereid bearing the Shield 
of. Achilles,” but this work was not finished, which is 
a pity. The pose is excellent. The nymph, bestriding 
a marine monster, is seen full face ; her arms hold the 
buckler most gracefully, and her crossed feet enable her 
to retain her equilibrium upon the back of her steed. 
The “Shepherd,” sent from Rome in 1817, is a 
small figure, quite artless, of juvenile gracility which 
somewhat recalls the manner of Donatello, but the 
master’s individual feeling does not yet manifest itself; 
for David was later a Romanticist sculptor within the 
limits of that severe and accurate art of his, the true 
environment of which was antiquity with its anthropo- 
morphous polytheism. As soon as David had mas- 
tered his tools and the secrets of his art, as soon as he 
was able to express his idea freely, he bethought him- 
self more of character than of beauty. The deep 
rhythm of Greek line appeared to him cold and even 


conventional; antique heads, with their serene placid- 


310 


DAVID 'D? ANGERS | 


ity, struck him as almost always wanting in expression, 
at least to eyes accustomed to the complications of 
modern life. More than any other sculptor he paid 
attention to the human face. For sculptors in general, 
the head is merely a detail of the body; the torso is 
quite as important, if not more so; unconsciously pa- 
gan, they do not pay sufficient attention to that trans- 
parent mask on which the soul leaves a visible trace. 
David d’Angers indulged this interest of his greatly ; 
he constantly sought the opportunity to reproduce in 
the shape of busts or medals contemporary celebrities. 
He went to Weimar to make a bust of Goethe; he 
made one of Chateaubriand, of Béranger, of Lamen- 
nais, of Arago, of Balzac. He delighted in noting 
how genius showed in the external modelling as by a 
sort of hammered work, marked the skull with bumps 
and the brow with protuberances, kneaded, moulded, 
and wrinkled the cheeks. In him the physiogno- 
mist and the phrenologist mingled with the sculptor in 
rather excessive proportions, for he often exaggerated 
beyond the limits of possibility the organs of some 
faculty which he believed he had discovered in his 
model, or which really existed in it. His monumental 


busts are nevertheless superb pieces of work, and will 


311 


BEELELLEAALLALALALALAL ELS 
PORTRATTS: OFF Pate 


go down to posterity as final and accepted types of the 
celebrities they represent. It is difficult to imagine 
Goethe in any form other than that in which he is 
represented by David d’Angers. 

The profiles which he moulded with swift and sure 
touch, with deep feeling for physiognomy, will form a 
complete collection of medals of the nineteenth cen- 
tury, for almost all the various classes of celebrities are 
represented in it by their leaders. “This forms not the 
least interesting part of David d’Angers’ work. His 
medals, in their accurate, delicate modelling, are not in 
the least worked out from the point of view of the 
ancients. The sculptor did not try to make his con- 
temporaries into Syracusan medals, he takes them as 
they are, with their hair long or short, bristling or 
smooth, bald-headed, moustached, bewhiskered, with 
chins shaven, with coat, collar, and cravat if necessary, 
and in this respect he is thoroughly modern. 

Few sculptors have shared as much in the intel- 
lectual movements of their day. Not that David 
d’Angers was a literary man, but he was full of ideas, 
and he thought it was the duty of the artist to represent 
them, or at least to have them reflected in his work. 


He therefore lived intimately with poets, and more 


312 


Sebeteeeedeeeteettttetette 
DALY T Da VAN GAEFR'S 


than one magnificent ode testifies to the noble ex- 
changes of admiration which were so frequent in the 
heyday of Romanticism; his marble was often re- 
turned to him in the shape of verse no less solid and 
lasting. For my part, I believe that the marble of 
Paros and Corinth should express beauty first and fore- 
most, and not a political or a philosophical idea, and I 
therefore regret the often useless trouble which David 
d’Angers took to make his art fit in with his system. 
Happily in his work the number of statues which he 
forgot to so fit in is large. “The Maiden by the 
Tomb of Marco Botzaris,” writing with her finger 
in the dust the name of the illustrious dead, comes 
within the compass of pure art, in spite of the Philhel- 
lenic preoccupations of the time. The lovely body, 
in its chaste nudity, has all the gracefulness of a 
nymph, and a truthfulness and a morbidezza which 
transform the marble into flesh. “The Young Drum- 
mer Barra” has nothing left of his uniform save the 
drumstick which he still holds with the dying hand, 
and exhibits a delicate torso somewhat slender in form, 
as delicate and as pure as that of Hyacinth fallen under 
the blow dealt by Apollo. “The Child with the 


Bunch of Grapes,” celebrated by Sainte-Beuve in ex- 


343 


bebbhb db dt ddtetetthttttetet 


ore CTO Te ove 


PORDPRAITS: OF * DET eipa aa 


quisite verse on an old rhythm of Ronsard’s, is worthy 
of the rimes it has inspired. It is a piece of work 
worthy of antiquity. ‘ Philopoemen drawing the Ar- 
row from his Wound” represents, in spite of the 
Greek subject, a wholly modern body, but so carefully 
studied, so absolutely true, that one does not regret the 
purer and fuller forms which an Athenian sculptor 
would doubtless have given us. ‘That excellent piece 
of work does the greatest honour to David, and counts 
among the best produced by artists in our day. 

There was a grave question, not yet settled, which 
then excited studios and literary circles: Should con- 
temporary celebrities be represented in their modern 
dress, or in a state of apotheosis and of ideal nudity as 
the sculptors of antiquity represented their contem- 
poraries? The Romanticists, through a sort of reac- 
tion against pseudo-classicism, were in favour of the 
absolute reproduction of the costume. ‘They wanted 
to have the Emperor wear his three-cornered hat and 
his gray riding-coat, and not the pa//ium of the Roman 
Cesars. David d’Angers did not quite make up his 
mind one way or the other; although his liking for 
realism inclined him to accurate reproduction of cos- 


tume, his sculptor’s instinct drew him towards the nude, 


314 


\ 
WO GO OFS TO OFS OT OE OTE ats CFS OTS Ve Wie WHE 


DANI DADYAN GER'S 


without which there can be no real sculpture; so he 
represents Corneille in the costume of the day, some- 
what modified and wearing a cloak, and on the other 
hand, Racine nude and wearing a Greek chlamyd the 
folds of which he brings back over his breast like an 
Athenian tragic poet. General Foy has a cloak only 
in the figure which crowns his monument, but he is 
dressed in the bas-relief which represents him amid 
his illustrious contemporaries. 

This apparent contradiction can be explained. The 
bas-relief represents the man such as he was; in the 
statue he is transformed, deified to a certain extent, for 
it represents the man’s genius. In his remarkable 
Pantheon pediment, David mingles allegorical and 
realistic figures; the former are nude or draped, the 
latter wear the costume of their day. ‘The statue 
of Talma might be that of Roscius, but an actor has 
no proper costume and it is permissible to give to 
the tragedian of modern days the attitude and nudity 
of antiquity. Later, however, urged no doubt by 
literary reasons, David d’Angers resolutely gave to 
his statues of illustrious personages the costume of 
the time in which they lived, and being unable to ex- 


hibit his profound knowledge of anatomy under the 


oe 


a 


ttte¢e¢¢eetetettetetetes 
PORT RAPES) OF CEB LGD 


more or less eccentric forms of dress, he concentrated 
his whole talent on the heads and faces. 

He added to the statue of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre 
a delightful group of Paul and Virginia asleep under 
a tropical plant, their childish arms interlaced. He 
carved superb Victories in the panels of the Triumphal 
Arch at Marseilles; great allegorical figures of robust 
and masterly port; he placed beautiful women by the 
Chil-de-boeuf of the Louvre; and every time that an 
opportunity occurred to place a Mourning Genius or a 
Weeping Virtue upon a tomb, he seized upon it. But 
in spite of the number of such examples, the most 
remarkable part of his work is the representation of 
illustrious men, the glorifying of human genius; Cor- 
neille, Racine, Goethe, Humboldt, Cuvier, Byron, 
Rossini, Alfred de Musset, are represented by statues, 
busts, or medals. I have merely mentioned a few 
names here and there; warriors and statesmen also 
have their place in this sculptured Pantheon which 
David d’Angers made of his own accord, often for 
marble or bronze, very often for nothing, moved by 
admiration, enthusiasm, or sympathy. 

His last work was the statue of Arago lying in eter- 


nal rest on the marble of the tomb. He was faithful 


316 


tbhbeteettetcetetettctest 
DAV UD DANGERS 


ib 
it 
th 
ih 


to the mission of his whole life, which was to fix the 
features of the man of genius and to bestow upon him 
the longest eternity which art grants, that of sculp- 
ture. ‘Thus it is that the name of David d’Angers is 
linked with the names of all the famous men who fill 
the first half of this century, and is inscribed upon their 


august images. ‘I’his was his individual, his distinctive 


character. 


aa/ 


MADEMOISELLE FANNY ELSSLER 


4 “HE newspapers trouble themselves only about 
the talent and the art of actresses; their 
beauty is never analysed, they are never 

looked at from a purely plastic point of view. Occa- 

sionally, it is true, their gracefulness, their daintiness, 
is mentioned, but that is all. | 

Yet an actress is a statue or a picture which poses 
before you, and she may be criticised safely; she may 
be reproached with her ugliness, just as a painter would 
be reproached for violating the rules of drawing (the 
question of feeling pity for human defects is out of 
place here); her charms may be praised with the same 
indifference as a sculptor exhibits who, in the presence 
of a statue says, “ That is a fine shoulder, or a well- 
turned arm.” 

No newspaper dwells on this important point, so 
that the reputation of pretty actresses is the work of 
chance, and usually is far from being deserved. Be- 


sides, many of these reputations for beauty have lasted 


318 


che che bs abs obs cb oll obs ol ole abe bool ole cfr obs ole ole of abe obs of obeobe 


CHS SHO OTS OTS OFS CFS OFS OTS WHO OFS WTO WTO UTS CTE CTO OTS OFS ETD OTS OF Fe 9 ene 


MADEMOISELLE FANNY ELSSLER 


for more than a half-century, which is in truth too 
long. 

Numberless heroic generals, charming functionaries 
of the Empire and no less delightful provincials, even 
thorough-bred Parisians, yet admire the traditional and 
mythological bloom of Mademoiselle Mars, the inimi- 
table Céliméne, a bloom which goes back to fabulous 
times. In general, handsome actresses are fairly ugly, 
—it is just to them to say so, —and if they did not 
have the stage for a pedestal, no one would pay any 
attention to them; they would be classed with ordinary 
women and with honest women who themselves have 
no other merit than that they are not men, as is easily 
seen when they abandon the dress of their sex to put 
on ours. 

All this has no reference to Mademoiselle Fanny 
Elssler, who is in the flower of her youth and her 
beauty, and has the advantage of not having been 
admired by our grandfathers. She is tall, supple, and 
well built; she has slender wrists and well-turned 
ankles. Her legs, shapely and clean, recall the vigor- 
ous slenderness of the legs of Diana, the virgin hun- 
tress; the kneecap is fair, and stands out well, —the 


whole knee is irreproachable. Her legs differ greatly 


319 


LELLLEALELLALLALLALLA LAL ELSA 
PORTRAITS: OF T Pbivy pak 


from those of most dancers, whose whole body seems 
to have settled down within the stockings; they are 
not legs like those of a parish beadle or a knave of 
clubs, which excite the enthusiasm of Anacreontic old 
men in the orchestra stalls and make them polish care- 
fully the lenses of their glasses, but two beautiful legs 
of antique statues, worthy to be moulded and lovingly 
studied. I hope I may be forgiven for talking so much 
about legs, but I am writing about a dancer. 

Here is another point worthy of praise: Mademoi- 
selle Elssler has rounded, well-turned arms ; the bones 
do not show at the elbow; they resemble in no way 
the wretched arms of her companions, the dreadful 
leanness of which makes them look like lobsters’ claws. 

Her figure is pretty well rounded, and— which is 
rare among dancers, to whom the double hills and the 
snowy mounts so often sung by schoolboys and song 
writers appear to be totally unknown — one does not 
see moving on her back those two bony squares which 
look like the roots of wings which have been torn out. 

As for the shape of her head, I confess it does not 
appear to me as graceful as people describe it. Made- 
moiselle Elssler has beautiful hair which falls on either 


side of her temples, shining and lustrous like a bird’s 


320 


tkebbebeetbeettettttttttt tts 
MADEMOISELLE FANNY ELSSLER 
wing. The dark colour of her hair shows somewhat 
too Southern against the distinctively German character 
of her face. That sort of hair does not properly belong 
to such a head and such a body. ‘This peculiarity 
troubles the eye and disturbs the harmony of the whole. 
Her eyes, very dark, which look like two little jet stars 
upon a crystal sky, are entirely different from the nose, 
which is wholly German as well as the brow. Made- 
moiselle Elssler has been called a Spaniard of the 
North, and this was intended as a compliment. It 
is her defect. She is German by her smile, the white- 
ness of her skin, the outline of her face, the placidity 
of her brow ; she is Spanish by her hair, her small feet, 
her slender, delicate hands, the somewhat bold turn of 
her waist. ‘Iwo different natures and two different 
temperaments struggle in her; her beauty would be 
improved if one of the types prevailed. She is pretty, 
but she lacks distinctive racial traits; she is neither 
quite Spanish nor quite German, and the same inde- 
cision is to be noticed in her sexual characteristics. 
Her hips are not much developed, her bosom does 
not exceed that of the Hermaphrodite of antiquity ; 
just as she is a very charming woman, she would be 


the loveliest boy possible. 


21 321 


kebetbeteettttetdetttttttest 
PORTRAITS: .OF Hey Dies 


I shall finish this portrait with a little advice. Made- 
moiselle Elssler’s smile does not show often enough. 
Sometimes it is forced and strained ; it shows the gums 
too much. In certain attitudes, when she bends, the 
lines of her face do not show properly, the eyebrows 
become thin, the corners of the mouth are turned up, 
and the nose looks pointed, which gives her face a dis- 
agreeable expression of sly malice. Mademoiselle 
Elssler should also dress her hair lower; if she did so, 
she would break the line of the shoulders and neck, 
which is too square. I also advise her to dye the ends 
of her pretty, slender fingers a less brilliant rose. It is 


a needless addition. 


322 


a 


kbbbbbb bbl 


OTe Fe Ve oO 


ADEMOISELLE GEORGES has been 
beautiful for a very long time, and one 
might say of her what the peasant said of 

Aristides, ‘I banish you because I am tired of hearing 
you called just.” I shall not do like that worthy 
Greek individual, although evidently it is more difficult 
to be always beautiful than to be always just; but 
Mademoiselle Georges seems to have solved that im- 
portant problem. Years pass over her marble face 
without in the least modifying the purity of her profile, 
that of a Greek Melpomene. Her state of preserva- 
tion is far more miraculous than that of Mademoiselle 
Mars, who is not in the slightest degree well preserved, 
and who can cause any illusion in her lovers’ parts only 
to army contractors of the time of the Republic and to 
generals of the Empire. 

But in spite of the excessive number of lustres 
which she counts, Mademoiselle Georges is really 


beautiful, and very beautiful. She is so like a Syra- 


Bo 


he che obs obs ole obs obs ols che abe che cho che che uf obs ob obs ole obe of ols cfr oly 
PORTRAITS OF THE Dawe 


cusan medal or an Isis on an Eginetic bas-relief that 
one might well mistake her for them. ‘The rich eye- 
brows, drawn with incomparable purity and delicacy, 
stretch over the black eyes full of fire and tragic 
flashes; the nose, thin and straight, cut by a finely 
dilated nostril, runs into the brow by a line magnificent 
in its simplicity ; the mouth is strong, arched at the 
corners, splendidly disdainful like that of an avenging 
Nemesis which awaits the moment of letting slip her 
brazen-clawed lion. Yet her mouth has the loveliest 
smile, which blooms with imperial grace, and one 
would never dream, when she expresses tender pas- 
sions, that she has just hurled an antique imprecation 
or a modern anathema. 

Her chin, which exhibits strength and resolution, is 
firmly turned, and ends that majestic contour of her pro- 
file, which is more that of a goddess than of a woman. 

Like all the beautiful women of the Pagan cycle, 
Mademoiselle Georges has a full, broad brow, swelling 
somewhat at the temples, but not very lofty, very sim- 
ilar to that of the Venus of Milo; a brow full of 
will, voluptuousness, and power, which suits equally 
Clytemnestra and Messalina. 


A remarkable peculiarity of Mademoiselle Georges’ 


324 


kktkkteebeeetettbtbbbkdb bh 
MADEMOISELLE GEORGES 


neck is that instead of rounding inward from the side 
of the shoulders, it forms a full contour which unites 
the shoulders and the back of the head without any 
sinuosity, a mark of the athletic temperament which 
is shown in the highest degree in the Farnese Hercules. 
The upper part of the arm is almost formidable 
through the strength of the muscles and the vigour 
of the contour. One of her bracelets would make 
a girdle for a woman of ordinary size, but her arms 
are very white, beautifully shaped, and end in a wrist 
childlike in its. delicacy and in its slenderness, and 
pretty hands dimpled all over, regular royal hands 
made to bear the sceptre and to clutch the handle of a 
dagger of A‘schylus or Euripides. 

Mademoiselle Georges seems to belong to a mighty 
vanished race. She amazes as much as she charms; 
she seems a Titan woman, a Cybele, mother of gods 
and of men, with her crown of crenelated towers. 
Her build has something cyclopzan and pelasgic; one 
feels on seeing her that she remains standing like a 
granite column, a witness to a bygone generation, and 
that she is the last representative of the epic and 
superhuman type. She is an admirable statue, fit to 


be placed upon the tomb of tragedy buried forever. 


325 


| NTIL now I have reviewed only a certain 

number of figures of more or less beautiful 

actresses, more or less suave and harmoni- 
ous in their contours; I have been preoccupied with 
the line rather than with the expression; I have en- 
deavoured to draw in ink, so to speak, each of the 
beautiful flowers of our day. In this gallery of lovely 
actresses all have a proud look and a bold brow; they 
walk like Venus or Aspasia; they have the same 
assured feeling of triumph in their port, the same 
grace, the same smile. They recall the ‘ Procession 


’ 


of the Hours,”’ in which all the figures are beautiful, 
and in which each goddess wafts her own perfume 
through the air. 

I have enjoyed describing all these figures; in some 
the pure severity of a Greek profile, in others the 
lively and charming ways of a Watteau shepherdess. 


Now I shall open the gallery of clever actresses. 


326 


teteteteeeettttett tte ttt 
MULE. SUZANNE BROHAN 


They cannot complain of my having given preced- 
ence to those flowers of a day, of which the wind 
breaks the stalk; it is to be feared that they will 
know neither old age nor duration. 

I do not mean, however, that all clever actresses 
are not beautiful; only, there are some among them 
in whom talent makes one forget even the beauty 
of the person, just as the main motive of a sym- 
phony casts in the shade all its other merits. I 
know no more absolute tyrant than talent. See for 
yourself. Here, even in society, there are charming 
women who might justly be thought pretty, even by 
the side of the prettiest; they have a bright smile, 
white teeth, abundance of hair, a lovely complexion, 
but they have also, unfortunately, wit, and the pitiless 
generosity of heaven has poured out so many gifts 
upon them that ugly women, in order to console 
themselves for that fact, seem to forget every mo- 
ment that these society rivals are pretty ; they merely 
say, “ How clever they are!” and when they say 
that, it is to avenge themselves. 

Cleverness is a book which very few people are 
capable of writing or of understanding. ‘There is 


® 
more wit in a single gesture of a woman, in a single 


oa 


$ebbbebeeeeeeettet betes 
PORTRAITS OF “THEY DAe 


shade of her dress, in a single inflection of her voice, 
than in all ‘ Candide.”’ Add to this that wit is van- 
ishing and becomes rarer every day on the stage as 
in society. 

Who will restore to us those divine models of wit 
of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, from 
Madame de Sévigné to Madame de Montesson? 
What patient analyst will take pains to explain to us 
how, little by little, wit, that gem so rarely met with 
among our actresses, :passed through an admirable 
exchange of grace and urbanity from the drawing- 
room of the court lady to the stage? 

Of the different kinds of wit which an actress may 
possess, the rarest is unquestionably society wit, yet 
it is that very form which, in spite of prejudice, 
reconciled the French society which has just come 
to an end to the simplicity of Gaussin, the repartees 
of Sophie Arnould, and the daring of Mademoiselle 
Mars. ‘These ladies had won the right to say any- 
thing they pleased by dint of cleverness; they had 
enough and to spare for all those small memoirs of 
the eighteenth century, so conceited and impudent. 
The Cydalises of that day did not rely upon a stock 


of witticisms borrowed here and there, from the stage 


328 


fktebtbettttttttbtbbttdd 
MLLE. SUZANNE BROHAN 


or the foyer; they had their own genuine wit. The 
actresses of that day were in accord with the upper 
ten; the two powers mutually aided each other. 
To-day where is the actress clever enough to ven- 
ture, off the stage, upon that dangerous ground of wit, 
to maintain herself on it, and to triumph over others ? 
What woman is always so much mistress of herself 
as to keep close watch on herself and never to ex- 
aggerate? Besides, when a woman is young and 
beautiful, she is not likely to have recourse to wit 
when she can so easily appeal to her charms. There 
are certain sacrifices which are quite inexplicable. 
Just as young, lovely women of the Court of the 
Great King, their hair still adorned with pearls, still 
scented with the roses of Versailles and the perfumed 
love-knots of scores of lovers, betook themselves fear- 
fully to the solitude of the cloister, so there are also 
actresses whose wavering courage leads them to take 
refuge in wit as a means of defence; it then becomes a 
weapon with which they guard themselves from slander 
and the mean jealousies of the green-room; it becomes 
the fan with which they slap the face of fools. Made- 


3 


moiselle de l’Etoile in the “ Roman comique ” uses her 


busk in that way when she wants to punish Ragotin. 


329 


LELLLAALAELALALALAALLALL LSA 
PORTRAITS OF* THES pie 


It is not my part to seek to explain the motives 
which cause a pretty actress to take to wit for the 
rest of her days, as formerly women took to religion ; 
such a resolve can only be the result of great per- 
sonal merit, and besides, to aspire to reign supreme 
as awit is a very fine ambition. ‘This position, un- 
occupied at the Comedie Francaise since Mademoi- 
selle Contat, is sought for at present by not more 
than three or four serious claimants. At their head 
must be placed Mademoiselle Brohan. | 

All that I have said about wit applies thoroughly 
to the nature of that actress, the charming Made- 
moiselle Brohan, who is to be seen walking so 
seriously along the street and towards the green- 
room of her theatre, and who will be seen presently 
on the stage sparkling with wit, humour, and charm. 
Every word of hers will tell, every repartee will be 
piquant, she breathes the very spirit of Marivaux’s 
comedy, she flashes and sparkles as it does. On 
the stage Mademoiselle Brohan has the effect of 
champagne; one has not time to see the defects in 
the work, so completely is one dazzled and carried 
away. [he mobility of her features: adds wonderful 


power to her irony or her passion; as swift as the 


55? 


ES 


MLLE. SUZANNE BROHAN 


che che abe ole aby che ole als afl alle obec able able ole alle able aa abe abe ele alle baal 


bee, she stings before we have thought of warding 
off the stroke. 

But go to the green-room after such an amusing 
evening, and you find there the most amiable woman 
of the world, who receives you with the air of a high- 
bred lady, with the reserve, the wit, the delicacy, and 
the dignity of manners which no actress, not even 
Mademoiselle Mars, possesses off the stage. Grace- 
ful and fine as one of Petitot’s enamels, Mademoiselle 
Brohan’s face could very well do without wit, but she 
has been quite right to turn to it, even as a matter 


of policy, for wit best adorns beauty. 


ep 


tetebetteeeeetttttbtettttkes 
Portraits of 16]. 


Born IN 1801 — Diep IN 1849 


EOPLE who never enter theatres are thor- 
oughly convinced that authors and actors of 


the drama properly so called have almost 


invariably a long face, a sombre look, and a Catalan 
dagger concealed about their person. ‘These worthy 
people would be shocked if they saw traces of gaiety 
on the face of Alexandre Dumas, of Bocage, of Victor 
Hugo, or of Frédérick Lemaitre; they are quite sure 
that Dumas killed a number of sailors on his trip to 
Sicily, that Bocage goes every morning to weep in the 
Vaugirard Cemetery, that Victor Hugo inhabits a 
cavern not far from Paris, and that Frédérick Lemaitre 
has tried time and again to commit suicide under the 
windows of a Russian princess. 

The witty and joyous dash characteristic of Dumas’ 
conversation, the quiet and paternal gait of Victor 
Hugo, Bocage and Frédérick Lemaitre in their blue 


coats playing billiards near the Ambigu, would fill them 


332 


KAPKA LAE A AeS SAAS ttt tees 
MADAME DORVAL 


with amazement. Now you can easily imagine what 
that sort of people think of actresses who perform in 
dramas. 

At the head of these is naturally Madame Dorval. 
She appears to them in the light of a veritable victim ; 
to them her soft, veiled look is full of soulfulness and 
elegiac sadness. ‘I am sure,” said a mirror-maker to 
his neighbour, ‘that that woman weeps eight hours a 
day. I am told that she has her room hung with 
black velvet. She goes to church,” etc., etc. 

It is thus that the ingenious mirror-maker judges 
that great actress, because he has seen her in the part 
of Adéle in “ Antony,” in “The Gamester’s Wife,” 
in ‘“¢ Charlotte Corday,” and especially in Marguerite 
in Goethe’s “ Faust”’; parts which Madame Dorval 
has marked with all her genius for suffering and 
resigned love. Happily the ourgeois and the mirror- 
maker — I hope so, at least, for the sake of news- 
paper men — write neither biographies nor notices. 

Madame Dorval is one of those privileged natures 
which necessarily are not understood of the vulgar ; 
she scarce shows her true self save to her circle of 
intimate friends and to the authors who usually write 


for her. Adéle in “ Antony,” whose smile is so sad 


Sa eae 


ae of che obs obo obs che abe of ofnolnolsehvoboshesle ole chest ak aka 
ORT RAT TS? OF? T Wb Vvoee 


and tearful, displays in her own home all the treasures 
of her naturally bright and joyous disposition. “The 
real characteristic of Madame Dorval’s temperament is 
genuine, open gaiety, as bright and fresh as the song 
of the bird in the cornfield. She is obliging and sets 
you at once at your ease, whoever you may be, which 
is the peculiarity of those genuinely rich in talent, 
noble hearts which hold out their hand to the poorest. 
Madame Dorval’s conversation is never fed with the 
wearisome commonplaces which Voisenon calls * good 
friends which never fail you at need’’; on the con- 
trary she willingly indulges, in the maddest possible 
way, in absurdities and paradoxes, enlivening every- 
thing, quizzing everything, imprudently expending her- 
self in a thousand ways, and not understanding the art 
of saving. 

Never seeking an effect, never pretending to utter 
witticisms, Madame Dorval does so nevertheless with 
certainty; all her rashest witticisms are fortunate. 
The peculiar mark of her wit is’ candour, it is like 
the bouquet of the rarest wines. “he most remark- 
able thing about Madame Dorval is that she could 
assuredly turn that wit to some other account. I have 


no hesitation in saying that if she cared to write a 


334 


abe fe abe oboe abe ho abe be a rade cde obec be abe be obec of doo 


CO Te VTS Te ove eo 


MADAME DORVAL 


book, even though she did not put her name to it, the 
book would be read. 

I have an album in which Madame Dorval has 
copied a few thoughts and maxims drawn from writers 
of various countries. It is a perfect Babel. The 
names of Schiller, Victor Hugo, Jesus Christ, Ma- 
homet, Sainte-Beuve, and many others are met with 
there. ‘These varied extracts are the result of her read- 
ing, but the choice of them marks indescribable fanci- 
fulness and humour. The reading of the book, written 
from beginning to end by herself, makes you feel as if 
you were following out one of Jordaens’ wonderful 
Bacchanals; thoughts alternate with stories, poetry 
with prose; you come upon sums in arithmetic and 
astronomical predictions, all whirling in a fantastic 
spiral, breaking out into so many flashes, which seem 
to light up the road travelled by Madame Dorval. 

I have often been asked by people in the provinces 
less stupid than the mirror-maker I have spoken of, 
“Is Madame Dorval witty?” My reply to these 
people, whom I could not decently present to the 
charming actress, was, “‘ Have you seen her in ‘ Jeanne 
Vaubernier’ by Balissan de Rougemont?” For that 


part is one of the best proofs of Madame Dorval’s 


B30 


kbbbbbbe ee bet hhh dd hhh td 
PORTRATTS © FF Tryp 


wit; she plays it like an actress who puts irony and 
. telling effects into every fold of her fan. M. Balissan 
de Rougemont must not get conceited because I say 
this, for it is entirely in spite of him that Madame 
Dorval has displayed such cleverness in that common- 
place story. Actresses sometimes play pleasant tricks 
to poor authors, —a trick like this one is a noble 
vengeance. 

In order that this article may not fail to reassure 
people who insist on believing that Madame Dorval 
inhabits a sepulchre, I am glad to tell them that her 
drawing-room looks like an annex to that of Marion 
Delorme. It is furnished with all the comfort and 
elegance of the day: albums, paintings, statues, a 
piano, flowers, embroidery, and porcelains. I have 
not seen in it a single black veil nor any Borgia poison, 
no Toledo blade and no stiletto. People drink tea, sit 
on comfortable sofas, talk with clever people and allow 
themselves to laugh at certain actresses — and you 


rarely meet any actors there. 


336 


MAD 


PvE ey vets etc ry ray hy 


Born IN 1820—DIED IN 1858 


HAVE no intention of writing a biography of 
Mademoiselle Rachel. The vulgar curiosity 
which hungers after insignificant details disgusts 

me more than I can express. But I may, I believe, 
without lacking in propriety, indicate a few features of 
the general appearance of the illustrious tragedian 
whose name may almost be replaced by this periphrasis. 
Mademoiselle’ Rachel, though devoid of plastic 
knowledge or taste, possessed an instinctive and deep 
feeling for statuary. Her poses, her attitudes, her 
gestures were naturally statuesque and formed a series 
of bassi-relievi; the draperies fell on her tall, elegant, 
supple body in folds that might have been made by the 
hand of Phidias; no modern movement broke the har- 
mony and the rhythm of her walk; she was born an 
antique, and her pale flesh seemed made of Greek 
marble. Her beauty, unrecognised, ——she was an 


admirably beautiful woman, — had nothing coquettish, 


aie 337 


ob che oh de che chs be be che doce cke cde deseo de os ode he 
PORTRAITS OF THE D Am 


or pretty, nothing French, in a word. Indeed, for a 
long time she was considered ugly, while artists were 
lovingly studying and reproducing as a type of perfec- 
tion her face with its black eyes, which was the very 
image of the face of Melpomene. Her brow was 
meant for the golden circlet or white band, her glance 
was deep and fatal, her face was an exquisite, long 
oval, her lips were disdainfully drawn up at the ends, 
her neck was superbly joined to her shoulders. When 
she appeared, in spite of the arm-chairs, and the Co- 
rinthian colonnades supporting a vault with rose orna- 
ments, while the age was that of heroic Greece, in 
spite of too frequent anachronisms in the language, she 
at once carried you back to the purest antiquity. It 
was the Phedra of Euripides, not that of Racine, which 
you beheld. She turned herself swiftly, with a few 
easy, bold, simple touches comparable to those of the 
painters of Greek vases, into a long, draped figure with 
few ornaments, graceful in its austerity and archaic in 
its charm, which it was impossible thereafter to forget. 
I would in no wise take aught from her glory, but in 
this lay the originality of her talent. Mademoiselle 
Rachel was rather a tragic mime than a tragedian in 


the ordinary sense of the word. Her success, which 


338 


i 


ale che os oe abe obs obs obs che oe clr obe ol coos obs ole obsobe ob oe ol obo 


Te ee eTe sm SS SO CFO VTS WTO CO 8TO CFS OFS BYE LTS We 


Nir MOISE DT LE RACHEL 


was so great with us, would have been greater still on 
the theatre of Bacchus at Athens if the Greeks had 
allowed women to wear the cothurn. Not that she 
gesticulated, for on the contrary motionlessness was one 
of her most telling means of impressing her audiences, 
but she realised in her appearance all the ideal queens, 
heroines, and victims of antiquity which the spectator 
could imagine. By a simple fold of her cloak she 
often told more than the author in a long tirade, and 
with a single gesture she called back to the fabulous 
and mythological times Tragedy, which was forgetting 
itself in Versailles. 

She alone maintained alive for eighteen years a dead 
form, not by renewing it, as might be supposed, but by 
making it antique instead of old-fashioned, which per- 
chance it had become. Her grave, deep, vibrating 
voice, so seldom rising loud or breaking into cries, well 
suited her self-contained, sovereignly calm acting, 
Never did any one have less recourse to the epileptic 
contorsions, to the convulsive or hoarse cries of the 
melodrama, or of the drama, if you prefer that. In- 
deed, she was occasionally accused of lacking feeling, a 
most idiotic reproach. Mademoiselle Rachel was cold 


like antiquity, which considered the exaggerated mani- 


339 


te 


LELLELELEEEE SEES EEE EES 


oe fe eTe «aye 


PORTRAITS OF Tithk, DAw 


festations of grief indecent, and scarcely allowed 
Laocoon to writhe as the serpent wound around him, 
and Niobe to crouch under the arrows of Apollo and 
Diana. The heroic world was calm, robust, and 
manly ; it would have feared to tarnish its beauty by 
grimaces; and besides, our nervous suffering, our 
puerile despair, our sentimental excitement would 
have made no impression upon those marble natures, 
on those sculptural personalities which Fate alone 
could break after a long struggle. ‘The tragic heroes 
were almost the equals of the gods from whom they 
were often descended, and they rebelled against Fate 
rather than whimpered. So Mademoiselle Rachel was 
right not to use the tearful voice, and not to speak 
the alexandrine verse tremulously and haltingly as 
modern sensitive players do. Hatred, wrath, ven- 
geance, revolt against Fate, passion terrible and fierce, — 
love with its implacable fury, murderous irony, haughty 
despair, fatal madness, these are the sentiments which 
tragedy can and must express; but it must express 
them like marble dassi-relievi on the walls of a palace 
or a temple, without breaking the lines of the sculpture, 
and constantly preserving the eternal serenity of art. 


No actress has rendered so well as Mademoiselle 


340 


choo oe oho abe he abe he ahs cette oto ote ts trad chee be fe shes 
MADEMOISELLE RACHEL 


Rachel the synthetic expression of human passion in- 
carnated in tragedy under the figure of gods, heroes, 
kings, princes, and princesses, as if it were intended 
to remove them farther from vulgar reality and mean, 
prosaic details. She was simple, beautiful, grand, and 
virile like Greek art, which she represented in French 
tragedy. 

Dramatic authors, on seeing the immense success 
of her performances, often longed to secure her as 
the interpreter of their works. If she occasionally 
yielded to such requests, it was, I may affirm it, only 
regretfully and after much hesitation. Although she 
was reproached with doing nothing for the art of our 
day, her tact, so deep and so sure, made her feel that 
she was not a modern, and that if she played the parts 
offered to her on all sides she would destroy the pure 
and antique lines of her talent. She preserved her life 
long her statuesque attitude and her marble whiteness. 
The few plays outside of her old repertoire in which 
she performed are not to be taken into account, for 
she abandoned them as speedily as she could. So she 
had no influence upon our contemporary art, but on 
the other hand, she was not influenced by it. She 


stands apart, isolated on her pedestal in the midst of 


341 


ceo abe oe obs oe de oe oe etre cece ce obec ob ceo feed 


FO HO OE OFS CFO ee ore vie 


PORTRALTS “OF ) VT El Sia 


the thymele; around it the choruses and semi-choruses 
of tragedy ever weave in and out according to the 
ancient rhythm. ‘There she may be left, as the most 
suitable funeral figure upon the tomb of Tragedy. 

We have said that Mademoiselle Rachel had no 
influence whatever on contemporary literature, but 
that is too strong a statement. She certainly did not 
take any part in it, but by resuscitating our old-time 
tragedy, she checked the great Romanticist movement 
which might perhaps have given to France a new 
dramatic form; she drove to inferior stages more than 
one discouraged talent; but on the other hand by her 
beauty and her genius she made the ideal of antiquity 
live again, and made us dream of an art greater than 
that of which she was the interpreter. | 

In private life Mademoiselle Rachel did not, like 
so many actresses, destroy the illusion she had pro- 
duced on the stage; on the contrary, she preserved 
all her prestige. No one was more simply a great 
lady. ‘The statue had no difficulty in turning into a 
duchess, and she wore the. long cashmere just as she 
wore the purple mantle with its golden palms. Her 
small hands, scarce large enough to hold the dagger 


of tragedy, handled a fan like a queen. When one 


342 


whe obs obs ele ol all abe al obo ole op obese abe ole abe ob ele abe ole obs abe al 


wre wee Cre CFO Fo GO VFS WTO VTS We UFO ere eye CTO OWN LTO ote 


Meret MOSEL LE RACHE TE 


saw her close, the delicate details of her charming face 
were seen in her cameo-like profile within the corolla 
of the bonnet, as they lighted up with a witty smile. 
She never posed, she was never tense, she often ex- 
hibited a playfulness unexpected on the part of a 
tragic queen. Many a clever remark, many an in- 
genious repartee, many a witty saying has fallen from 
those beautiful lips shaped like Cupid’s bow and now 
mute forever. | 

An actor’s fate, after all, is very sad; he cannot 
say, like the poet, on omnis moriar; his past work 
does not remain, and all his glory goes down into 
the grave with him. His name alone is repeated 
for a time by men. Among the present generation, 
who is there that has a very clear idea of Talma, 
Malibran, Mademoiselle Mars, Madame Dorval? 
What young man is there who does not smile at 
the amazing tales told by some old amateur still 
passionately fond of his remembrances; and who does 
not prefer zm petto some blooming, living mediocrity 
performing in an ephemeral work of the day under 
the glare of the footlights? 

So let us not, we patient sculptors of that hard 


marble called verse, envy, in our wretchedness and 


645 


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PiOiR-‘TRiATL Sy .O:F & CAVES ioe 
solitude, the noise, the applause, the praise, the crowns, 
the showers of gold and flowers, the carriages with 
the horses taken out, the torchlight serenades, or even 
after death the immense processions which seem to 
have gathered together the inhabitants of a state. 
Poor beautiful actresses! poor great queens! For- 
getfulness covers them completely, and the curtain 
of their last performance, as it falls, conceals them 
forever. Oh, vanished perfumes! Oh, songs long 
stilled! Oh, passing images! Glory knows that they 
will not live, and gives them forthwith the favours 


which it makes immortal poets wait for so long. 


344 


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